


What You Think You Know

by LynnLarsh



Series: People Are Puppets [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Reality, Basically Bill fucks with Dipper's head, Basically just a whole hell of a lot of fucking with Dipper's mind some more, Because Bill don't give two shits no mo, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, But with less of a restrained flare, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Doctor/Patient, Dubious Consent, Even though technically Dipper is eighteen... and stuff..., Fooling Around, Gaslighting, Gen, I'm so so sorry guys, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Multi, Nightmare Fuel, Not Really Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Underage - Freeform, Violence, You've been warned..., but just in case, dub-con, like a lot, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4965871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dipper foils one of Bill's master plans.  Bill makes him pay for it with six years of his life and eight years of unexpected, unwilling, and undeserved therapy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Six Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> I finally jumped on the Gravity Falls fanfic bandwagon! Mostly thanks to kali_asleep, but also because these new episodes have been pushing my buttons in the most inspirational of ways. Anybody else not realize how bad Dipper's PTSD was until "The Last Mabelcorn"? Because damn.
> 
> So anyway, have some more Bill torturing Dipper. Because I am literal trash.
> 
> BillDip may come eventually, but it may not be in the way you expect. Just a warning for some of you.

The whole of Gravity Falls seems to be vibrating beneath the weight of the spell. Dipper’s words ricochet off of mountain rock and tree bark and whip back in a torrent of wind that blows his cap from his head, sends it flying. He doesn’t give it much thought, though. Can’t. Not when they’re so close, not when he’s finally figured out how to keep everyone safe.

Dipper’s grip on the journal is white knuckled, nearly ripping the pages in his attempt to hold them in place against the virtual whirlwind his voice has unleashed. He can feel Grunkle Ford’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him, can hear Mabel’s voice cheering him on. He can even see Grunkle Stan, brandishing a shotgun in a thin but appreciated attempt at his own defense.

This is gonna work. Dipper can feel it.

And true to form, just as the final words are leaving his mouth, Dipper sees it, that moment when space and time part ways like the Red Sea to let him slip through, everything blipping in and out of focus as he settles into existence.

“Real clever, Stanford,” Bill’s voice rings out, acidic and syrupy, dripping down the back of Dipper’s throat like honey gone bad. He tightens his grip on the journal with that much more resilience. “You’ve trained your Mini-Me pretty well, I’ll give you that. But you know you can’t stop me! You should just stop trying already… It’s honestly getting kinda sad!”

“We’re not trying to stop you,” Dipper chimes in, can’t help himself. Because this was his plan, this is the make or break moment, and if it all works-

“You think a cloaking spell is going to protect you?” Bill zeroes his singular eye in on Dipper, laughing in a way that makes his skin crawl. “I already told you, Pine Tree. Even if I can’t see inside your heads, you know this town has plenty of other-“

“That’s not going to help you find it though,” Dipper grins, allowing himself to feel a little bit smug. Because that something in the way Bill narrows his eye tells Dipper his plan is working perfectly.

Or… Perhaps a little too perfectly?

“You’ve cloaked it. The Rift,” Bill hums, low and menacing. “You’ve found a way to keep it from me, hm? Hide it just out of my sight. A perpetual game of hide and seek, my rip in space-time lying in wait for the victor. And you’ve found a way to keep me from winning! Very clever. Well done. But then guess what, Pine Tree?”

Suddenly, Bill flashes icy blue, frigid tendrils of flame dancing up the translucent edges of his body. He’s inches from Dipper’s face in less than a distinguishable length of passing time, the endless void behind his eye latching onto Dipper’s mind like a vice.

“I’m not letting you win either.”

Dipper feels Grunkle Ford’s hand tighten on his shoulder, six fingertips digging painfully into his collarbone as he tries to wrench Dipper backwards, away. Dipper can hear Mabel and Stan screaming something, calling out his name, but it all sounds muted, muffled, everything happening in slow motion.

And somehow, Dipper can tell it’s already too late.

He processes the image of Bill reaching towards him on half second delay, and inhuman hand somehow already on Dipper’s forehead, touch strangely cold. It makes his mind feel oddly numb.

“See you in six years, Pine Tree,” Bill whispers, the words tinged with a sick, twisted sort of laughter.

It’s the last thing Dipper hears before the world tilts sideways and he falls into nothingness.

 

xxx

 

To say he wakes with a start would be an understatement.

Rather, it feels as though time has restarted itself, like he’s just been shoved past the line between nothing and everything. One second there’s Gravity Falls and his family and an endless blackness swallowing him whole, the next, he’s scrambling into existence, focus greyed at the edges and everything feeling a tad out of place, disconnected.

Nothing looks right. Nothing feels right.

_What’s going on?_

It takes a few minutes, accompanied by multiple deep inhales to calm his racing heart, a few seconds on and off of attempts at blinking away the haze that’s still clouding his vision, but eventually things start to drift into focus.

It’s the whitewashed walls he notices first, a time-worn paint starting to peel at the edges. A few pictures of landscapes hang about, but they’re otherwise undecorated, empty looking. Forced. Dipper wills himself to sit up ( _When had he even lied down?_ ) and tries to look around the rest of the room. Not much too see: small set of dresser drawers painted in the same shade as the walls, a window with dusty blinds, a simple, cushioned chair. It all feels very sparse, sterile.

He’s in a hospital?

He doesn’t seem to be attached to any IVs or wires, no heart monitor beeping next to his bed, but there’s no denying the feel of his room, the atmosphere of ‘patient’ it seems eager to beat into his psyche.

But why is he here?

_Think back, think back. Saying the spell, thwarting Bill’s plan before it could even come to fruition (he gives himself a mental pat on the back for that one) and Bill’s hand, reaching, reaching, the feeling of his mind going numb, fuzzy around the edges, swimming in and out of focus-_

Dipper closes his eyes tight, shakes his head. Bill must have knocked him out or something and everyone else must have fought him off. If he didn’t wake up right away, they must have panicked and brought Dipper to the hospital. That explains how he got here, but that doesn’t explain why everything feels so wrong, why even the hospital doesn’t look quite right. It’s very obviously not the Gravity Falls hospital (he’s been there once or twice already) but he can’t imagine Grunkle Stan taking him anywhere farther away. And for some reason, he can’t seem to shake the lack of medical equipment. Before he woke up, how were they monitoring his heartbeat, his breathing, _anything_.

And if his family took him to a hospital, where were they now?

Dipper runs a hand over his face, throws his legs over the side of the bed. And his feet touch the floor.

The sensation is jarring.

He’d never admit it, especially to Mabel, but Dipper’s always known he’s on the shorter side, always thwarted by things like tall chairs and beds with higher frames. Over the last twelve years of his life, he’s gotten used to it, to his feet dangling a moment before he jumps to the floor. This, though. This isn’t right.

For a brief second, he tries to convince himself that the bed is just particularly close to the ground, but it becomes apparent the moment he stands up, that that’s nowhere near the truth.

No, somewhere, beyond all possible reason, he’s gotten taller.

There’s a mirror in the corner of the room. He doesn’t quite run, but he certainly rushes to it, one part eager and nine parts terrified to see what exactly is going on with his height.

Or rather, not just height, but his _age_ as well?

It’s obvious from the very second his eyes latch onto his own face, that he’s older. Hair a bit longer, face a bit more angular. Even under the white shirt and scrub-like pants he seems to be wearing, he can tell his limbs are a bit gangly but definitely stronger. He looks like he’s probably still a teenager, no older than maybe seventeen, possibly eighteen-

_See you in six years, Pine Tree._

Dipper stumbles away from the mirror, heart abruptly trying to rip its way up his throat. He nearly knocks over the set of drawers as it catches his fall. He can’t breathe, can’t think. He grabs at the material of his shirt, bunches it into a fist over the center of his chest.

_No._

_No, no, no._

_Bill._

_What do you do?_

He’s scrambling out of the room before it even registers what he’s doing. He has to find Mabel. Has to find Grunkle Stan and Ford because they can fix this, they know what’s going on, they have to. They’ll figure this out. They’ll make it make sense. If only he just knew where they were!

“Mabel!” He hears himself call out in a strangled squeak, but this particular hallways is surprisingly empty, his panicked cry eliciting no response. _What’s wrong with this place? Where are the doctors?_ “Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford!”

He’s starting to hyperventilate, he can feel the beginnings of it deep beneath the rising cold-hot anxiety bubbling to life at the center of his chest.

Has he been in a coma for six years…? Is that what Bill meant?

Dipper nearly barrels around the corner looking for someone, anyone. This isn’t right, he must be dreaming. Bill’s messing with his mindscape, toying with his dreams again, giving him nightmares. That’s what this must be. A nightmare. Empty hospital, six years older, so horrifyingly alone. There’s no other thing it could be.

And yet, despite the attempts at rationalizing, Dipper can’t help but feel a steadying rush of relief the moment his panicked sprint puts him in the line of sight of a group of people in hospital attire. The girl in the light blue scrubs, red hair tied back into a ponytail, is the first one to see him. Her eyes go wide as he skids to a stop, not really registering her face. He just needs her help, needs her to find his family, needs her to explain, fix, make him understand, because he doesn’t understand anything right now, and nothing’s ever terrified him more.

He doesn’t get a chance to proclaim this, however, before he’s cut off by the sound of her voice wrapping around his name like a memory come to life.

“Dipper,” she says, putting familiar hands on his shoulders. Older hands. Six years older. “What are you doing out of your room? Curfew was called hours ago.”

“Wendy?” He chokes out, stumbles away from her, because she’s not right either, can’t be. A nurse? And what is she then? Twenty-two? How is this happening?

“Dipper, hey,” Wendy’s voice is trying to sound soothing, he can tell, but it’s not working. She reaches towards him, but he just jerks further away, backs himself up against the wall. “Dipper, you need to calm down.”

“No!” He hears himself scream, and it sounds so alien, like the voice doesn’t belong to him at all, too deep, too rough. How had he not noticed before? That’s not his voice, and this isn’t his body, and, “You’re not Wendy. You can’t be! This isn’t- I’m not- What’s going on?”

“Somebody call the doctor,” Wendy orders one of the nurses behind her before turning her attention back to Dipper. “Hey there, kid. Come on. Just take a deep breath. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Where’s Mabel?” He ignores her, panting against the claustrophobia of panic. “What am I doing here?”

“They visit you every week, Dipper. You know that.”

“How would I?” He yells, tangling his fingers in his hair on either side of his head. “I don’t even know why I’m here!”

“Dipper,” Wendy says, and the way she says his name makes him pause: disappointed, pitying, sad. The look on her face matches it to a T. “Where do you think you are?”

“I don’t know…” Dipper chokes out a sob. “I don’t know, I don’t know! A hospital?”

“But where do you think this hospital is located, Dipper?”

That question doesn’t make sense. He answers it anyway though, even thought it seems so obvious, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Gravity Falls.”

Wendy shakes her head. “We’ve been over this Dipper,” she says, eyebrows furrowing in such a pained looks of sorrow that Dipper doesn’t even need to hear what she says next to know it’s gonna shatter him completely. And yet, even so, he’s not prepared.

“You know Gravity Falls doesn’t exist.”

Dipper’s mind blanks out for a second. Because how could somewhere he’s lived in, grown in, experienced such impossible and remarkable things in, just… not exist. No. It’s not possible.

“You’re lying,” Dipper whispers, and when Wendy shakes her head, reaches out towards him again, he bats her arm away and nearly falls over himself trying to push off the wall and get out of her reach. “You’re lying! Bill’s gotten to you, hasn’t he!”

“Dipper, please!” Wendy tries, but Dipper can’t hear her, his ears ringing, his heart hammering like a caged bird against his chest. She takes a step towards him and this time he does trip over himself in attempt to back away, falling ungracefully to the floor. 

“No! You stay back!” He all but screeches, pointing at her as he tries in a futile attempt to crawl backwards down the hall, away from her, away from this, away from _Gravity Falls doesn’t exist._

“Nurse!” Wendy calls, and just like that, two new people in scrubs and white coats are rushing towards him, one of them holding him down and the other rolling up his left sleeve. He tries to struggle, but the pinprick of pain tells some rational part of his mind that it’s already too late. 

He feels the beginning of whatever they just injected him with instantly. Everything is swimming, he’s lying down on the ground and yet he’s floating. _Gravity Falls doesn’t exist. Gravity Falls doesn’t exist._

“You’re wrong…” he mumbles into the linoleum. Two sets of hands haul him to his feet, drag him back in the direction of what must be his room. “Th’ssallwrongg…” His words are slurring. Everything’s greying around the edges again. Even so, he still catches a glimpse of Wendy as they pass. She’s talking to one of the other nurses, trying to be quiet, but he can hear her. Can practically see her lips as they form the words, the lies, the nightmares.

“The doctor’s not going to like this,” she says, voice dripping with regret. “He hasn’t had a relapse this bad in years.”

Before he can hear any more, he’s being dragged around a corner, put into his bed. It all happens in snippets, fractures of time slipping between the fingers of his consciousness. But one thing repeats and repeats and repeats with perfect clarity as he drifts for the second time (in minutes, days, _years_?) into unconsciousness.

_Trust no one. Trust no one. Trust no one._


	2. Fool Me Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper meets his doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please continue to heed the warnings. Especially if you're easily triggered by reality displacement, Gaslighting, and psychological torture. Dipper doesn't have a choice, but you do. So if you're sticking with me on this, god speed, dear readers.

This time he wakes up slower. The transition is difficult, mind groggy and working at barely even half speed. He doesn’t quite remember much at first, whispers of information that his brain isn’t awake enough to process yet. But then-

_You know Gravity Falls doesn’t exist._

Dipper snaps into full awareness, a burst of adrenaline jerking him into a seated position, all traces of grogginess shuffled away by the burst of raw panic. A panic made even greater by the clattering sound of metal against metal and the instant realization that he can’t seem to move his arms.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Dipper’s attention is wrenched towards the door, a man in his twenties standing at the threshold with a clipboard in his hands and another white lab coat draped over his shoulders. His light brown skin is a stark contrast to the shock of yellow-blonde hair he has styled just so to stay slicked at one side and fall over his left eye on the other. Judging by the stethoscope around his neck, Dipper would say he’s the doctor everyone has been talking about. But he seems too young, somehow, face a little too pretty.

“How are you feeling, Dipper?” The man asks, interrupting Dipper’s slightly embarrassing train of thought. An embarrassment caused by suspicion, of course, and nothing as poorly timed as the attractiveness level of his supposed doctor.

Dipper focuses on something else. Like the still lingering panic. Much better. Safer. He pulls at the restraints a bit, keeping his voice level, face deadpan.

“Drugged,” he says, flatly. “And a little like a prisoner.”

The doctor lowers the clipboard and locks his singular gaze on Dipper’s wrists, smiling. “A simple precaution. You were thrashing around in your sleep. Couldn’t have you hurting yourself or one of the nurses, now could we?”

Another memory, another pang of cold fear.

“Wendy?” Dipper asks without thinking.

The doctor raises an eyebrow at him but answers nonetheless. “Among the other nurses in my ward, but yes. Nurse Wendy did check on you once or twice while you were out.”

“Wendy’s not a nurse,” Dipper shakes his head, closes his eyes tight, because maybe if he clenches them shut hard enough, he’ll wake up for real this time, like he used to do to get himself out of nightmares as a kid. Realize he’s dreaming, close his eyes, wake up in real life where everything is real and fine and not terrifying. But when he opens his eyes this time, he’s still right where he’s been, strapped to a hospital bed in a world where _You know Gravity Falls doesn’t exist._

“She’s been working under me for eight years,” The doctor chuckles. “Started around the same time you were admitted, don’t you remember? I’m pretty sure I’d know if she was a nurse or not at this point.”

_Eight years._

The doctor keeps talking, but all Dipper can process are those two words, put together to form a meaning that can’t possible make sense. Eight years? Admitted eight years ago? But what about middle school and summer vacation and road trips with Mabel and his parents and summer with Grunkle Stan and Gravity Falls and _a few hours ago he was still twelve years old!_

He’s suddenly hyper aware of the feeling of his own body, of the way it sits and the way the muscles move and the way each panting breath escapes his lungs. And none of it feels right. Too tall, too big, too old, too everything. And he has no idea how he even got here, has no idea what’s going on.

“Dipper? Dipper, come on. Look at me.”

The doctor’s voice is right by his ear, the feeling of a hand rubbing circles on his back, his whole body shaking, heaving beneath the touch. He’s hyperventilating again.

Dipper grips the sheets between his fingers until his knuckles feel ready to pop, wills his heart to calm down, his panicked breaths to settle. Eventually, he manages a few deep inhales, shaky exhales, and starts to regain his balance.

“Atta boy, Pine Tree,” The doctor’s voice whispers, closer still, a breath of unnaturally cold air at the shell of his ear. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

This time the fear is all consuming, a rush of pure terror that flashes up his spine to settle at the base of his skull in a cold-hot stranglehold. Dipper jerks himself away from the doctor’s touch, eyes wide, rattled.

“What did you just call me?” His voice is shaking, his arms pulling desperately at the restraints in an attempt to get further away from what that name must mean on his doctor’s lips. But the doctor simply has the audacity to look at him in shocked confusion.

“Dipper,” he says, reaching out carefully as if to lure Dipper back from a metaphorical ledge. But Dipper only pulls harder at his restraints, yanks himself as far away as they will let him go.

“No! No, you called me something else! Just now!” Dipper practically screams. “What did you call me?”

“I called you Dipper,” The doctor says, smiles a bit sadly. “I always call you Dipper, you know that. It’s what you asked me to call you.”

“But not just… Just now,” Dipper shakes his head desperately. “You didn’t, you… You called me…” He hesitates, not sure why. Eventually he settles on a deflated, “Something else. Just now.”

“I promise you I didn’t, Dipper,” The doctor reaches forward again, and this time, Dipper doesn’t pull away, simply lets the man begin checking his pulse, monitoring this and that and a slew of things Dipper couldn’t care less about. So he lets his attention wander, tries to distract himself from how off, how wrong everything is. Whatever the doctor is saying goes in one ear, out the other, barely acknowledged besides the occasional hum of agreement or shrug of dismissal.

Maybe he… Misheard? His senses overwhelmed by how impossible this all is, how completely and totally _wrong_ everything has become, that he just-

“Dr. Cipher?” Another nurse, one Dipper doesn’t recognize, is suddenly standing in the doorway. “Another patient requires your assistance in room 206 when you have a moment.”

If it was possible for Dipper’s stress level to rise any higher, that name certainly does it. Dipper wills himself not to have a heart attack as he glances at the doctor’s nametag.

_William Cipher, MD – Head of Psychiatry – Northwest Mental Health Clinic_

Dipper reels himself in this time, pretends he hasn’t heard, hasn’t seen. Thankfully, the doctor ( _Dr. Cipher… William Cipher… Bill… It can’t be Bill. It has to be Bill. How can it be Bill?_ ) is too occupied in those few seconds of revelation to notice.

It’s all a lie. A trick. He’s hallucinating or he’s in the mindscape or-or something. Anything.

“One of the nurses will be back in to take you to our session in a few minutes, alright?”

Oh. The doctor ( _BillBillBillBill… Bill?_ ) has been talking, but talking to him now ( _When did the nurse leave?_ ) so Dipper forces himself to pay attention, to look up at this face he’s never seen before and try not to crack beneath the weight of what he wants to believe, can’t possibly believe, is being forced to believe.

Dipper just nods, and _Dr. Cipher_ leaves him be. Still strapped to his hospital bed, still alone and confused in a _mental hospital_ apparently. And still nanoseconds away from coming apart at the seams.

 

xxx

 

As expected, a nurse shows up a few minutes later, promptly undoes Dipper’s restraints, and urges him to follow. There’s very little going on in the hospital, he notices. A nurse or two, no other doctors. The patients’ rooms all closed off from his line of sight. If Dipper thinks about it enough, he could probably convince himself he’s the only one here. Dr. Cipher’s only patient. The thought makes that ever present bubble of panic rise like bile at the back of his throat, so he promptly snuffs it out.

After multiple hallways lined with closed doors, the nurse stops him in front of an office, the same name on the doctor’s ID etched into a gold placard on the door. The nurse knocks once, opens the door, and ushers Dipper inside.

“Hello again.” Dr. Cipher smiles. It’s meant to be comforting but isn’t. Especially when accented by the nurse abruptly shutting the door behind him, trapping him inside. Dipper swallows, takes a breath. Steadies himself. Dr. Cipher doesn’t seem to notice Dipper’s unease, but if he does, he ignores it. “Are you ready for today’s session?” Dipper doesn’t answer, doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. Dr. Cipher doesn’t seem dissuaded, motioning instead to the comfy looking chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat, please, Dipper.”

Part of Dipper refuses to move, refuses to listen to anything this humanoid Bill ( _But is it Bill? It has to be Bill…_ ) false doctor has to offer. But the other part of him, the one still in Gravity Falls, the one who’s read Great Uncle Ford’s journal forwards and back, knows the ins and outs of how to survive in a world filled with monsters, also knows when it’s best to play the game.

So Dipper takes a seat, and wills himself not to feel like he’s just condemned himself to the electric chair.

“Now then,” Dr. Cipher starts, wasting no time, and if his smile is a touch smug, surely Dipper is just imagining it. “You had a pretty big relapse last night. It’s been two years since you’ve even mentioned Gravity Falls. Care to explain what brought this on all of a sudden?”

 _Because less than two days ago I was there!_ He wants to scream. _Because this is all some game that Bill… that YOU are playing with my head! Because I want to be twelve again and home again and with my family in Gravity Falls again and-!_

“I don’t know,” Dipper says instead. Because he can’t play the game until he understands it.

“You don’t know,” Dr. Cipher hums, taps his pen against his bottom lip with a sigh. “You know these sessions don’t work unless you talk to me, Dipper.”

Dipper flinches. “Stop saying that.”

Dr. Cipher raises an eyebrow at him, tilts his head in curiosity. “Stop saying what?”

“Stop saying, “You know,” like I’m meant to know all of this already.” Whoops. Hadn’t meant to show his hand like that. “I mean… I don’t…”

“You’ve been under my care for eight years, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher states as if it’s not the most outrageous bit of information Dipper has ever heard. “You’ve known how all of this works since you were ten years old.”

_Ten years old? Not possible! Not possible! I don’t I don’t I don’t! It’s not real!_

“Right,” Dipper breathes. “Sorry. I just… Don’t feel like myself right now.”

Dr. Cipher smiles, gets up from behind his desk and walks around to step more completely into Dipper’s personal space. “I can tell,” he says, settles himself basically between Dipper’s legs. Dipper’s heart jumps into his throat, his eyes widening as he tilts his head back to keep the doctor’s face in his line of sight. Dr. Cipher is looking down at him in a way that seems to dig into his skin, burrow beneath like ants until every inch of him is crawling, itching, biting.

“You’re trying so hard,” Dr. Cipher whispers, leans forward until their noses are practically touching, until he’s breathing in warm-cold puffs of the doctor’s breath. Until Dipper is seeing double, Dr. Cipher’s two eyes becoming one. “Aren’t you, Pine Tree?”

Dipper tries to wrench himself away out of reflex, but only manages to knock himself and the chair backwards, colliding with the floor hard enough to knock the air out of him a bit. But before he can take another breath, there’s a hand on his throat, holding him down, trapping him in place. 

Dr. Cipher is looming over him, an unnaturally wide grin stretched across his face. Dipper can feel his own pulse racing against the doctor’s fingers, not gripping enough to choke, but definitely enough to make a point.

“You think you can trick me, Pine Tree?” He says, voice slightly raised, more manic, in a tone Dipper knows all too well. It makes something sour and painful clench at the pit of his stomach. “In my own mindscape? You think you can just pretend that you believe? No, no, no. You’re going to live and breathe this world, kid. You’re going to wake up each day and go to sleep each night and sooner or later, you’ll have no choice.” This time, when Dr. Cipher ( _Bill. Definitely Bill._ ) leans over him, he does tighten his grip, cuts off Dipper’s airway with a soft, demonic chuckle. 

“Sooner or later, you’ll trust me when I say that everything you thought you knew was a lie. Sooner or later, when I tell you that Gravity Falls never existed,” Bill leans down, even further, until his lips are just barely brushing Dipper’s cheek, a breath of words on tearstained skin. “You’ll believe me.”

Dipper wrenches himself forward, jolted into a seated position… in his hospital bed.

“What…?” Dipper looks around, eyes adjusting to the darkness too slowly, making the room feel dangerous, oppressively dark, claustrophobic. “How did…?” _But I was just-_

He knows the feeling well, by now, the rising, crushing adrenaline of an anxiety attack. Just a second ago, he’d been in Dr. Cipher’s office. He’d gotten Bill to prove Dipper right. This was all part of some twisted game, some epic hallucination in the mindscape. But now he’s back in bed, sheets warm and pillow ruffled, slept in. Almost as if the whole thing had been a-

“No.” Dipper cuts off that train of thought. “It’s just another trick. Just another trick.” Dipper pulls his knees up into his chest, hugs them close. “Bill’s wrong. Bill’s wrong. Bill’s wrong.”

He’ll never believe that it was all a lie. Gravity Falls is real and Wendy isn’t a nurse and Bill isn’t a psychiatrist and this is all just one big game of mental torture. So he won’t believe it. He can’t believe it. He can’t. He shouldn’t. He won’t.

But, staring into the darkness of his room, the feeling of waking from a nightmare still clinging like black sludge at the edges of his consciousness, he’d be lying if he said it wouldn’t be easy. That if he let go, he wouldn’t be able to convince himself what just happened had been nothing more than a very bad dream.

_I’ll never believe it. He can’t make me. I’ll never believe it._

Dipper hugs himself tighter, buries his face into his knees, and cries.

_I’ll never believe it. No matter how real it feels._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my plan is to post a chapter every friday if not before. I have a substantial amount already written but I'm not quite finished with it yet, so no clue how many chapters it'll ultimately be. I suppose it depends on how much I wanna keep torturing Dipper.


	3. You Know That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mabel comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep looking at them tags, kiddies. It's only gonna get more traumatizing from here.

He doesn’t get a lot of sleep that night, partially as a precaution, but mostly because every time he closes his eyes, he dreams he’s in Gravity Falls. Waking up and not being there hurts so much that eventually Dipper gives up on sleep all together and takes to wandering the halls. At this point, it’s close enough to morning to get away with it anyway.

The minimal staff persists, and he only sees one nurse on duty, a girl that looks a disturbing amount like an older version of Grenda. Dipper avoids her just in case; he can’t quite handle the idea that more of Gravity Falls might be leaking into this twisted reality. It makes it too difficult to convince himself not to question, to just believe in what he knows to be true.

Because when he starts to question things, that’s a battle Bill has already won.

Still, especially sleep deprived, Dipper can’t stop his mind from wandering with him, looking at each of the few people he sees and trying to pinpoint whether or not he knows them. Knows a younger version of them, a Gravity Falls version of them. And is that just because Bill was thorough?

_Or because I made all of them up?_

Dipper pauses mid step in the middle of another random hallway, his heart skipping a beat.

“No, no, no, Dipper, what are you doing?” He groans to himself, burying his face in his hands. _Stop thinking, stop thinking. It’s not doing you any good._ He takes a breath, picks his head up again. There’s a bathroom just past the next corridor. Maybe if he splashes some water on his face.

He doesn’t quite make it into the bathroom, however. Instead, he’s nearly barreled over by an older man in a janitor’s uniform who’s in the process of making his way out with a mop and bucket. Dipper takes a step back and tries not to be too obvious about how much it hurts to see such a familiar face in such an unfamiliar reality.

“Sorry about that, dude,” Soos ( _or whoever this version of him appears to be_ ) laughs a bit, scrambles to get out of Dipper’s way. “I didn’t see you there.”

Dipper opens his mouth to say something in response, but nothing comes out. What could he possibly say to this Soos? Nothing matters besides finding a way out of this madness, and he highly doubts that whoever this carbon copy of Soos may be, he has an answer stashed away in his mop closet.

“It’s… fine,” Dipper finally gets out. He wills himself not to feel oddly disappointed when Soos nods, smiles, and walks away without another word.

The florescent lights in the bathroom are too bright, his face is too haggard ( _too old, too angular, too different_ ). He runs the faucet, listens to the sound of it splashing in heavily droplets against the porcelain sink, and stares into his own eyes. They’re his eyes, he knows that, but it’s like looking at a photograph; very close to the real thing, but not the real thing at all. 

Dipper lowers his head close to the sink and splashes enough icy cold water on his face to drench the top part of his shirt. One handful, two, three, lets his hands stay pressed close to his face on the fourth, blocking out the harsh bathroom light and illuminating the insides of his eyelids with starbursts.

_Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe I’m still dreaming. When did I wake up? When have I ever woken up?_

Dipper breathes in, breathes out, sucking in strained breaths and droplets of water through his nose. He can’t think like that. If he lets himself start spinning his head around in circles like that, he’ll never stop, never be able to get off the carousel Bill has thrown him on. Because Bill must have, Dipper repeats to himself for what feels like the umpteenth time. Bill pushed him onto a merry-go-round and spun it out of control, making it impossible for him to get his footing, impossible to see or think or breathe. Every turn another doubt, another trick, another step farther away from Gravity Falls.

Problem is, the longer Dipper spins, the more it feels like the only ways off are to give in, or to jump. He doesn’t know which is scarier.

“Dipper?” A soft knock on the door makes Dipper jump. Wendy. He scrambles to turn the water off, eyes still blurry, starry at the edges. 

“Y-Yes?” He stammers, toys with opening the door, but it’s easier when he can’t see her face. So he leans against it instead, blocking her out.

She pauses for a moment before continuing, probably realizing he’s not going to let her in. “Jesús told me you were in here.” _Jesús? Oh. Soos. Right._ Wendy pauses again, then adds, “Your sister’s here.”

_Mabel._

Dipper’s heart dismantles and reforms itself again, a desperate burst of twelve year old longing crashing over him like a wave and settling heavy at the center of his chest. He wants to see her more than anything, wants her to tell him he’s being a doof and that everything will be okay. He wants her to be twelve, to be waiting in one of her horrible sweaters, hand outstretched, ready to lead him out of this nightmare. Because Mabel means home, Mabel means family and Gravity falls and twins and safety.

“Dipper?” Wendy’s voice calls out once more from behind the door, making Dipper startle again. “Did you hear me?”

“Why… Um,” Dipper searches frantically for something to say, decides he’s stuck with the only question his mind seems willing to produce. “Why is she here?”

Wendy is silent for another long, frustrating moment, before she finally says, “It’s Tuesday,” as if that’s supposed to answer his question. When Dipper doesn’t respond with the expected sound of recollection, she adds, “Mabel always comes to see you on Tuesdays. Hasn’t missed a weekly visit since you were admitted. You know that.”

_You know that. You know that. You know that._

If he hears those words one more time, he’s pretty sure he’s going to scream. Because he doesn’t know anything anymore. He barely even knows dreams from reality at this point, but everyone just keeps on using those damn words. Over and over again.

_You know that you’ve been here for eight years. You know that you’re eighteen years old. You know that Dr. Cipher is your psychiatrist. You know that Gravity Falls doesn’t exist. You know that. You know that. You know that._

Well he’d rather not know, not here, not when all these things he should know make no sense. Not when all of this can’t possibly be real. So in that moment, he chooses to hold steadfast to what he does know instead. That Mabel is here somewhere, waiting for him.

Dipper opens the door.

Wendy is still there, taking a step back in surprise as he exits the bathroom. “Sure, yeah. Right,” Dipper clears his throat, runs a hand through his tangled mess of too-long hair. “Where is she?”

Wendy blinks at him, takes a moment to respond. “Lobby. As usual.”

“Okay,” Dipper turns towards where he remembers a sign pointing in that general direction.

“Wait, Dipper!” Wendy calls after him. He looks over his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to change?”

Dipper looks down at his standard issue white shirt, half of it still blotchy from water stains, droplets leaving behind dark green spots on light green scrub bottoms. He’s not even wearing shoes. He looks at Wendy and shrugs. “This is fine,” he says before turning back around and heading towards the lobby.

 

xxx

 

The first thing he sees is her hair, bangs pushed back by a simple, black headband. It’s so familiar, so Mabel, that Dipper almost cries with relief. But as he gets closer, the familiarity starts to give way to stark, unsettling difference.

Where Dipper had aged ( _as much as being twelve one second and eighteen the next can be classified as aging_ ) lankier, angular, Mabel had grown curvier, softer. They still share the same face, but she’s decidedly someone new. His twin, but not. Dipper’s suddenly struck with a sharp, unavoidable pang of regret that he didn’t get to watch the transition. That he didn’t get to see her become this version of her, didn’t get to travel alongside her as it happened, is almost a physical ache.

But no. That’s not right. Because none of this is real and back in Gravity Falls he’s still twelve and even though just seeing her makes something warm and comforting settle over him like a blanket, it doesn’t mean she’s really Mabel. 

He feels like he’s being split in two, equal parts wary and desperately hoping with torn and jagged edges in between.

“Oh, Dipper!” Mabel finally notices him; he has no idea how long he’s been staring. He straightens up out of reflex, watches as she gets up from the lobby couch and heads for him with a smile that’s so Mabel it makes his heart ache. “Long time no see, Bro Bro.”

A snippet from his conversation with Wendy, the irrational desire to appease. No. To play the game. Of course.

“You’re here every Tuesday, Mabel,” he says, tries to smile, but the words sound fake and the motion feels tense and true to form, Mabel can easily see it for what it is. Her smile falters, eyes go a bit sad. Until her gaze travels lower.

“Dipper,” she asks, eyebrows furrowing in a very Mabel-like way. Another sharp tug behind his ribcage. “Why are you all wet?”

Dipper knows what his clothes look like, but he glances down anyway, eyes the still damp fabric. For a brief second, he considers telling her exactly why, exactly how messed up everything is, exactly how close to the edge he feels, but he hesitates, can’t really figure out why. Instead he just says, “Faucet broke.”

She narrows her eyes a bit, but smirks all the same, not quite believing but not quite willing to pry either. “Alright, Dip. But make sure you don’t stay in those clothes all day, yeah? You’ll catch a cold.”

“Alright, mom,” Dipper rolls his eyes, and for just a moment, he feels normal. Not twelve again, but more present, somehow. Like the edges around his vision have gone a bit clearer. Mabel is safe. Mabel is home. Mabel is sanity.

“Wanna sit down?” Mabel asks, already taking a seat back on the couch. Dipper follows suit, settling himself down on the other end.

A silence stretches between them, not quite tense, but not quite comfortable either. Eventually, Dipper decides it would be better for the both of them if he bites the bullet and breaks it.

“So…” But he can’t really think of anything to say. Nothing seems as important as, _Why aren’t we twelve anymore?_ Or, _What do they mean Gravity Falls doesn’t exist? You remember it right?_ Or especially, _How do I get out of here?_ “How’s mom and dad?”

“Good, good,” Mabel smiles, though he swears it’s a bit pitying, like she can see how hard he’s trying to hold his shattered pieces together in a semblance of it’s original form. “Miss you, obviously. They get back from Colorado on the fifteenth, though. So they’ll come and visit you then.”

“Right,” Dipper nods. More silence. A bit tenser this time. “And Grunkle Stan?”

“He should be coming by tomorrow,” Mabel smiles. “As usual.”

“As usual,” Dipper repeats, softly. He’s not even looking at Mabel anymore, can’t quite bring himself to. “Is he bringing Great Uncle Ford then?”

This time, Mabel initiates the silence. It’s strained and heavy and lasts long enough that Dipper’s forced to look back in her direction. She’s frowning, confusion plain on her face. “Great Uncle Ford?” She asks, and the name sounds unnatural on her lips, like she’s never said it before. “You mean Stanford? Grunkle Stan’s brother?”

“Yes?” Dipper says, and he’s been stuck in this nightmare long enough to know that he doesn’t want to hear what she says next.

“Grunkle Stan’s brother died before we were born, don’t you remember?” Mabel says slowly, cautiously. “Something about a lab explosion while he was in college. I don’t know. Grunkle Stan doesn’t talk about it much.”

Dipper can feel his breath quickening, his heart stuttering in his chest. He shakes his head. Great Uncle Ford. Dead. No. That’s not- No Ford means no portal no Bill no Stan trying to get him back no need for Gravity Falls. No Ford means-

“No journal,” Dipper whispers. A summer sent elsewhere, to wherever Stan’s been living his life without a brother to save. A summer where Dipper doesn’t find a book with a gold, six fingered hand on the front to occupy his time. A summer without monsters and adventure. A summer without Gravity Falls.

Because Gravity Falls doesn’t exist.

_No. No stop. Wrong wrong wrong._

“You mean your journal?” Mabel asks suddenly. Dipper feels the world freeze around him. He looks up at her, eyes probably a bit more wide set than he’d like.

“My journal,” he parrots, which he finds he’s been doing a lot lately, just trying to keep up.

Mabel touches a brightly manicured nail to her bottom lip, gazes at the ceiling. “Yeah. The one you started writing when you were ten.” Her eyes soften a bit again as she glances back in Dipper’s direction. “After the accident.”

“The… Accident?” Dipper can feel his heart trying to climb up his throat. The softness in Mabel’s eyes falls a bit, shifts into something more undeniably pitying.

“They told me you had a relapse,” Mabel frowns, looks away almost… nervously?

“What accident, Mabel?” Dipper pries, feels like he’s treading water, running out of steam, inches away from drowning.

She still refuses to look at him. “I didn’t realize you were having trouble remembering things too…”

“Just tell me, Mabel,” Dipper snaps, instantly regrets it when it makes her jump in surprise, shy away from him a bit like he might bite.

It takes her a second to start talking again, and when she does, she looks a bit like she might cry. Even if she’s six years older, different, she’s still Mabel, and seeing that look on her face has the same effect it’s always had; Dipper instantly wants to take it back, make the sadness go away, make her smile and giggle and be herself again.

But he needs answers more. So he stays silent. Waits for them to come.

“You said you’d seen something,” Mabel explains, looking somewhere in the vicinity of Dipper’s right shoulder, clutching her hands in her lap until her knuckles have gone white. “Something running past the house, into the woods just outside our backyard. I still remember you calling out to me, you know? Telling me to follow. But I was… Watching something on TV. A documentary on Sev’ral Timez, I think. I don’t really remember anymore. I just remember thinking, ‘I’ll finish up this episode first. Then I’ll go.’ But maybe,” Mabel takes a breath, eyes definitely welling up now. “Maybe if I’d gone right away. Maybe if I hadn’t waited.”

“Mabel, please,” Dipper breathes, heart racing. Because something about this story sounds very familiar, too familiar. And he needs to know. He needs to understand.

She finally looks at him again. “By the time I found you, you were already unconscious. The doctor said you hit your head when you fell, that you’d been climbing one of the trees and a branch broke.”

It comes rushing back like a tidal wave of fresh memories, like a pulled string unraveling a tapestry to find a mural painted beneath.

A strange, humanoid figure looming outside his window, running off when he catches its eye. Bounding out of the house to catch it, calling Mabel’s name in a mix of fear and excitement. Running into the woods behind their house. Catching a glimpse of it near one of his favorite climbing trees. Following it up, up, up. Slit pupils and a jagged smile, a hand pressing into the center of his chest. Falling down, down, down. Everything going black. Waking up to Mabel’s frantic voice calling his name.

Those are his memories. Those moments had happened. He had a lump on the back of his head for days, woke up wondering if he’d been imagining things. Spent the next two years culminating a passion for the supernatural, a passion that quickly became an obsession during his first few days in Gravity Falls. Starting the moment he found Ford’s Journal.

Those memories are real. Those memories are his own. They actually happened. He knows what’s true. Doesn’t he?

He doesn’t remember anything about a doctor.

“You were unconscious for three days, Dipper.” Mabel goes on, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil going on inside of him. “I wasn’t sure if you were even going to wake up, but you did. You did, and I was so happy, but…” She swallows, tries to smile. It doesn’t really look right on her face. It’s an expression he’s never seen on Mabel before. A Mabel he’s never seen before. “But it’s okay! It’s okay, Bro Bro. Because you’re not crazy or anything.” She places a hand on his knee, squeezing just this side of painfully, a look of desperation in her eyes. “You’re just a little sick, that’s all. And Dr. Cipher is helping make you better, so-”

Dipper pulls away as if burned, staring wide-eyed at Mabel as if she’s just transformed into a different person with three heads and jagged teeth and a mouth that lies, lies, lies. He gets to his feet, backs away from her.

“I’m not crazy,” Dipper shakes his head, practically snarls at her. Mabel is all but cowering, sinking into the couch cushions with her hands up in defense.

“I know! I know, Dipper, I just mean-”

“I’m not!” He yells. “Everyone else is crazy! This? This whole thing?” He gestures with wide swipes of his arms at the empty room at large. “It’s just a nightmare. A fucked up hallucination put here to torture me!”

A tear escapes down Mabel’s cheek. Her voice cracks as she whispers his name, but he barely hears her, crowding into her personal space, an arm on either side of her head, fingers digging into the couch cushions.

“This is all Bill, Mabel. Bill’s messing with my head. Please, Mabel, you have to believe me.” He knows he sounds crazy now, frantic, but he’s toppled over the edge of reason, a terrified desperation taking hold. This is just a trick, just a game, and if Mabel can believe, then maybe he can believe it too.

But she just keeps looking scared, keeps looking confused. “Dipper… Who’s Bill?”

“Bill Cipher!” He screams in her face. “The one who put me here!”

“I don’t…” She squeaks, and the fear in her eyes, fear of _him_ , would break his heart if it wasn’t already preoccupied with his own pounding terror. “Your doctor?”

“No! No, no, no! The dream demon! The triangular bastard trying to convince me that I’ve lost the last eight years of my life and that Gravity Falls doesn’t exist, but I know it does, Mabel! I know it does!”

“Oh Dipper…” Mabel sniffles, hiccoughs, reaches towards him to carefully rest a hand on his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten this bad?”

Dipper stumbles backwards, feels the breath leave him in a huff, as if he’s just been punched in the stomach. Mabel watches him, a hand over her mouth, her eyes glistening and cheeks wet.

_This is wrong._

Mabel is supped to be home. Mabel is supped to be safe. Mabel is supped to be _sanity._

This Mabel is just as much torture as the rest of it. 

For the first time, Dipper properly looks at her, at the black headband and the dark blue jeans and the yellow sweater.

A yellow sweater with a hand-stitched, black triangle at the center.

 _He’s not crazy. He can’t be crazy. He won’t believe it, he won’t. Even if Mabel does_ (Not his Mabel. Not home. Not safe.) _he won’t. He can’t._

The Journal.

“You-You said I had a journal.” Dipper scrambles, reaching blindly, hoping for purchase. “Do you have it?”

Mabel shakes her head, eyes still wet, face still so full of pity. “You brought it with you.” She says. “You wouldn’t let them admit you without it.”

He latches on, holds that little bit of something tight. Maybe it’s not Ford’s journal ( _No Great Uncle Ford here, no Gravity Falls here_ ) but it’s still a Journal. Maybe the journal. Maybe, out of everything, with this little bit, Bill might have made a mistake.

“You wouldn’t put it down, had your head buried in it for weeks,” Mabel says, still talking, even though Dipper’s mind has wandered. 

_Where would ten year old me keep it?_

“It was obsessive. You stopped talking, stopped eating. All that existed for you were monsters and fairy tales and that stupid journal.”

_Would I still have it even after eight years?_

“We had no choice, Dipper. When you started talking about that place that didn’t even exist, swearing it was out there, that you’d been there, that it was where all the monsters were real, there was nothing else we could do…”

_Maybe it’s in my room. I have to check my room._

“You were getting better, Dipper. You’d finally started to accept- Dipper! Dipper, where are you going?”

Dipper doesn’t even bother to acknowledge his not-sister’s shout, already half sprinting back out into the hall, back in the direction of his room. He can hear her voice echoing after him, but she doesn’t follow. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the journal.

If it’s here, if Bill messed up somehow, maybe he can fix things. Maybe he can use it to get back home, back to where Mabel doesn’t think he’s crazy and where Gravity Falls isn’t a place he made up after a three day coma when he was ten years old. 

He’d forgotten how bare the room is, really only a few places he can look. The closet has a few clothes in it but is otherwise empty. The pillows and cushions hide nothing. But the set of dresser drawers by his bed-

The minute Dipper opens up the bottom drawer, his heart stops. Buried underneath a few other miscellaneous items---a few folded, white shirts, a picture of him, his parents, and Mabel from when they were little, a picture that’s supposed to be in the attic of the Mystery Shack next to his bed---is a splash of red and gold.

With trembling hands, he reaches into the drawer, moves everything out of the way, and grips at the spine. Except it’s not a leather-bound spine, but spirals. And it’s not a journal so much as a crappy, time-worn notebook, cover painted in a chipping red with a sloppy, gold hand etched onto the front. Five fingered and small. A child's hand. His own hand.

Whatever hope he’d had flickers out of existence, a candle flame finally succumbing to the brutal, unforgiving wind.

If his heart can sink any further, it does the moment his hands obey the command to move again, open the notebook, turn the page. Sloppy, child-like drawings of vampires, werewolves, gnomes. Pages he remembers from the real Journal, Ford’s Journal, but redone in his own messy scrawl, his lack of artistic talent. Page upon page of “research” and “theories” and even with all he’s seen, all he’s done, even knowing all of the true and terrible and wonderful things he thinks he knows, he can see the notebook for what it really is.

The insane ramblings of a delusional child.

Without really thinking about what he’s doing, Dipper grabs hold of the top of the page he’s on ( _Leprecorn – Part Leprechaun, part unicorn, part complete and total nonsense_ ) and pulls. 

The page gives way easily, a satisfying string of pops as the paper wrenches free from the metal spirals. He does it again to the next one, and the next one, and the next one. Each page he tears out gets messier, some ripping in half, some bending the spirals out of shape with the force of it. He goes faster, hyperventilating again, shaking again, not just ripping the pages out, but ripping them apart all together, pictures of Gremloblins and Aliens and Plant People turned into no more than a pile of confetti. 

Until nothing is left, the book empty and cover torn in half, straight through the finger painting of a black number three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for all your kind words and kudos! This has been the most determined I've been with a fic in a long time so it's really motivating to see and hear what you think. I'm trying to keep up with the "post every friday" rule I've given to myself, so wish me luck! And just in case it wasn't obvious, it's only going to get far, far worse before it gets better. So brace yourselves.


	4. Contradictions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad session and a worse visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More torture, more pain. Dipper can't quite catch a break, man. Poor kid.

“How did you sleep last night, Dipper?”

_Jerking into frantic consciousness hour after hour, lying awake in a cold sweat staring at the ceiling._

“Fine.”

“Any nightmares this time?”

_The Mystery Shack aflame, Stan and Ford trapped inside. Gravity Falls drained of color, devoid of life, a memory of what it once was, a ghost town now, cobwebs hiding in decrepit corners, Dipper all alone on its empty streets. Hanging by his fingertips off the edge of a cliff, Mabel standing over him, watching. Laughing._

“No.”

“I heard your visit with your sister didn’t go so well yesterday.”

_“Oh Dipper… Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten this bad?”_

Silence.

There’s the sound of rustling papers, of a tired sigh, and Dipper can almost hear Dr. Cipher rolling his eyes, maybe even pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. 

“You know, Dipper,” the doctor says. “This will work a whole lot better if you talk to me.”

Dipper keeps his eyes glued on the wall of Dr. Cipher’s office, right below his framed certificate that legally allows him to practice medicine. “I’m fine, thanks,” he replies.

This time, after the expected bout of momentary silence, Dipper hears the sound of a chair scraping against wood flooring, of footsteps coming closer. And soon enough, Dr. Cipher is back in his personal space, kneeling down in front of him, eye level. Dipper’s mind snaps back to their last “session,” his pulse skyrocketing out of reflex. But this time, Dr. Cipher doesn’t attack, doesn’t call him Pine Tree. No, this time, there’s only concern in his eyes, a slight worried frown on his lips.

“You know I just want what’s best for you,” he places a hand on Dipper’s knee, the warm, steady weight of the touch both strangely comforting and oddly terrifying. “Don’t you, kid?”

Dipper looks away, forces himself not to focus on that touch, on how close Dr. Cipher is. He’s too strung out, too on edge, wants to lean into the comfort but also doesn’t want to give in. 

_Trust no one. Trust no one._

But he can’t even seem to trust himself right now, so how does that work?

“And what’s… best for me?” Dipper swallows, glancing at the doctor out of the corner of his eye. Dr. Cipher is smiling, a bit relieved, maybe, that Dipper isn’t shutting him out completely.

“What’s best,” Dr. Cipher says, words dripping syrupy sweet in a way that should be soothing but isn’t. His hand moves a bit further up Dipper’s thigh and something short circuits, Dipper’s mind going blank.

_Wait. Wait. Why is-? What?_

“What’s best,” Dr. Cipher says again, voice softer, face inching closer to Dipper’s. Too close for professionalism. Too close for anything other than- But no. Why would he-? He’s Dipper’s doctor! Or, no. He’s Bill, right? He’s- Wait. Dipper’s mind is reeling, throwing him so far off balance he barely hears what Dr. Cipher says next. “Is for you to allow yourself to accept the truth. This is reality, Dipper. Everything happening to you, everything you’re experiencing right now, is very-” Lips at the pulse point of Dipper’s neck. “Very-” A hand curving around to graze Dipper’s inner thigh. “Real.”

And Dipper finally catches up to himself.

“What the hell are you doing?” He yells, pushing Dr. Cipher away, nearly toppling his chair again in the process. He can feel his heart racing, hammering against his chest like it’s playing the Flight of the Fucking Bumblebee. And Dr. Cipher has the audacity to chuckle, back away with a smile.

“What?” He says. “Too much?”

Dipper can’t quite keep up, the feeling of Dr. Cipher’s hand on his thigh a phantom weight even as the doctor gets back to his feet, leaning against his desk with arms crossed over his chest in a perfect interpretation of nonchalance. 

“I guess that approach was a bit over the top,” he smirks.

Dipper opens his mouth to speak, to question, to throw up, maybe. He’s not sure yet. But all of this is making him a bit sick. Thankfully, Dr. Cipher just shrugs, keeps talking as if oblivious. Or most likely just indifferent.

“I guess that’s what I get for reading too much into things,” he says with a sigh. “Though, in my defense, you’re not exactly subtle.”

“What are you-?” Dipper tires to spit out, but Dr. Cipher isn’t paying attention, too busy smoothing down the fabric of his suit jacket, running a hand through the hair over his eye, making himself pristine again. Untouchable.

“You know,” he says with a dramatic sigh, an over-the-top pout. “You’re making this way harder for yourself than it needs be, Pine Tree.”

And there it is. Should have expected it. But it still sends a fresh spike of terror straight up Dipper’s spine.

“What do you want from me?” Dipper groans, lets his head fall into his hands, trembling. Dr. Cipher’s ( _No. Bill now. Bill again. Definitely Bill’s-_ ) laugh echoes unnaturally around him, both too close and too far away simultaneously.

“I already told you what I want, kid,” he says, and suddenly there’s a hand beneath Dipper’s chin, forcing him to look up, to pay attention. “Though I suppose, now, it’s also about what you want. I take it you like the form I chose for this little experiment, huh? Egyptian, get it? And handsome too! That whole patient-doctor taboo aside, I think you might have a shot!” Bill waggles his eyebrows in obvious implication and it causes a sickening lurch in the pit of Dipper’s stomach. 

Yup. Definitely gonna throw up.

“Just stop this,” Dipper whispers, hates the plea in his voice. But it’s too much. He feels like he’s living two realities at once, can’t quite keep himself balanced in either, always stretched too thin, too far in either direction.

Bill lets go of Dipper’s face, and Dipper lets his chin sink into his chest, eyes staring at nothing. “Aw, come on, Pine Tree.” Bill whines. “Tapping out on me already? But we’ve just started! Things are finally getting good!”

“What more could you possibly do to me?” Dipper hisses through clenched teeth, jerks his head up to look at Bill in a sudden burst of desperate, overwhelming rage. “What’s the point of all of this? To torture me? Well you have! So just let me go home!”

“But you are home, kid,” Bill laughs, opens his arms wide. “This reality is your home now. And very soon, you’ll see it for what it really is: The only reality you’ve ever known.”

“You could never make me believe that,” Dipper swears, half to prove a point, and half just to convince himself. Bill hums, a discordant note that’s somehow managing to harmonize with itself.

“Sure I can!” He chuckles in that same pitch, his voice two-toned, hallow and demonic. The Bill from his nightmares. “Because I can do this.”

Bill snaps and it suddenly feels like the world has shifted two inches to the left. Dipper’s still in Dr. Cipher’s office, but he’s not quite sure how he got there. A session? But then where’s-

“Oh, Dipper,” the doctor’s voice chimes in as if on cue, Dr. Cipher walking into his office and closing the door. “You’re early.”

At the sight of him, something twists painfully in Dipper’s chest, something very much like panic, but undefined, unprompted. It feels like the beginning of a memory, like remembering the feeling of a dream but not the dream itself. And this one must be a nightmare for the way Dipper’s whole body reacts.

Dipper’s out of his chair in an instant, backing up into Dr. Cipher’s desk hard enough to knock some of his things onto the floor. A mug shatters somewhere to his left, pens and pencils clatter about at his feet.

“Stay back!” He yells in the doctor’s direction, even though he’s not sure why. He just knows what he feels, and right now, it’s something along the line of _Don’t come near me, stay away from me, don’t touch me, just stop this, stop it, stop, stop, stop!_

The next few things seem to happen with an almost out-of-body sort of vagueness. Dipper watches the world tilt sideways as his legs give out, sees Dr. Cipher drop his armful of files and rush to his side, feels himself struggling against Dr. Cipher’s attempt to calm him down, hears himself saying the same thing over and over again, “Just let me go home. Just let me go home. Just stop this. Stop it, please. Just let me go home. Please just let me go home.”

The world slowly shifts back into focus at the feel of strong arms wrapping around him, holding him steady, anchoring him down to earth. The arms are accompanied by fingers running soothing lines through his hair, petting him, trying to tame a wild animal.

“Shh, it’s alright, Dipper. You’ll be alright,” Dr. Cipher promises. “Everything’s going to be alright. You were just having an episode.”

It all starts slowly filtering back into focus frame by frame. Bill and his own promises and being stretched between two realities, one of them getting smaller and smaller under the weight of an all consuming psychological torture. Dipper winces against the onslaught of mixed, chaotic memories, feels the fresh tidal wave of panic crash over him in what should be a fight or flight response.

Instead, he buries himself smaller and smaller into the cocoon of Dr. Cipher’s arms and fights tooth and nail to hold back tears that are already starting to fall.

 

xxx

 

The next couple of hours pass in a zombie-like haze. 

Before he knows it, Grunkle Stan is waiting for him in the lobby, just like every Wednesday. Or so that’s what Mabel had said. Only this time, Dipper sits himself down in front of the older, familiar-but-different-now version of his Great Uncle with no reservations. And certainly none of the hope he’d attached to his sister. It’s awkward, Grunkle Stan obviously not knowing what to say, and Dipper barely feeling cognizant enough to respond. 

In the end, the small talk and awkward silence becomes too much for the both of them. Their usual hour long visit barely lasts twelve minutes.

“Listen, kid,” Grunkle Stan clears his throat, already getting to his feet. He struggles a bit, as old men tend to do. And Dipper can see it, just how old Grunkle Stan is now. How much time has passed for everyone except him. “You look tired. I’m just gonna…” He trails off, waiting for Dipper to take the bait.

Dipper doesn’t know whether to be grateful or hurt. He settles for not feeling much of anything at all.

“Yeah,” Dipper nods, gets to his feet as well. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” Grunkle Stan smiles, and even though it’s strained, it seems genuine. Reminds Dipper of a similar smile lined with stubble and haunted by his own battle with time and monsters.

“Hey, Grunkle Stan?” Dipper says before he can stop himself, even though Stan is already nearly out the door. Stan turns back around, blinking in surprise.

After a moment, Stan chuckles softly. “Hell, kid,” he says, still off guard for some reason. He sniffs, eyes going a bit watery. “You haven’t called me Grunkle Stan in years.”

Ah. Of course.

“Right, sorry,” Dipper looks away, instantly feeling even more awkward than before, if that’s at all possible. “I just, um…”

“No, no,” Grunkle Stan laughs louder this time, tries to hide the slight crack in his voice under a hardly believable cough. “It’s fine. What’s up?”

Dipper hesitates, knows there’s no reason, really, for him to bring this up. Not here. Not in this version of his reality. But he can’t shake the scratches of grief still clawing at the back of his mind, tainting his memories of what he knows to be true, wants to be true, still can’t quite believe.

But Mabel had said it. Mabel. So it must be. And that means the words are out of him before the realization that too much time has passed can stop him.

“I’m sorry, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper says. And when Stan only raises an eyebrow at him, reasonably confused, Dipper adds, “About your brother.”

Stan actually takes a step back at that, confusion growing into a full head tilt, lips parting in a perplexed half smirk. “My brother? What are you talking about Dipper?”

And that hurts more than anything, really. That enough time has passed that Ford’s death doesn’t register beneath the condolences. A passing memory belonging to a Stan from decades ago, and something Dipper has no claim on.

“Great Uncle Ford,” Dipper presses on, feels the sharp burn of tears, the suffocating rise of a lump in his throat. “I just… I’m sorry about what happened to him. That he’s… You know. Not around anymore.”

Stan’s gaze shifts from general confusion to looking at Dipper like he’s grown a second head. Which he might have. Who knows what what’s happening anymore?

“He’s pretty busy, I guess,” Grunkle Stan scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. “But it’s nothing to apologize for, kid. The price of genius and all that. I’m sure he’ll come and visit next time he can drag his scientific ass out of his lab. Don’t worry.”

And that… Doesn’t make sense at all.

It takes a probably agonizingly long bout of silence on Stan’s part before Dipper can get his mind to function properly again.

“But… Ford’s dead,” Dipper blinks, heart picking up a notch, though he can’t tell if it’s in relief or fear. Because Mabel had said… And he’d believed. Still can’t quite bring himself to doubt to believe to make sense of anything to just- Dipper runs a hand over his face. “Great Uncle Ford died when you guys were in college… right?”

When Dipper looks up again, Grunkle Stan is smiling, chuckling softly, though his eyes hold a hint of pity. It’s a testament to his exhaustion that he’s simply grown used to that look, barely even bothered by it anymore.

“Who told you that?” Stan huffs, leans a bit more heavily on his cane as another deep chuckle escapes him. “Unless something happened in Portland that I don’t know about,” he adds, but he doesn’t seem worried. And why would he be? Dipper’s worrying enough for the rest of the world at this point.

“I though,” Dipper shakes his head. “Mabel had said… Something, I thought-”

“Ford is fine, kid.” Stan smiles, trying to look comforting. It almost works. Probably would have. In any other reality. “Listen. I’ll call him tonight, tell him to put whatever fancy pants experiment he’s running on hold and come visit you, yeah?”

“It’s…” Dipper sits back down, can’t quite remember telling his legs to do that, but obliges them anyway. Standing is taking too much effort, all thought processes busy trying to rationalize exactly how Ford can be both dead and not dead. “It’s fine.”

Another few seconds of tense, weighted silence.

“Dipper… Want me to stay a bit longer?” Grunkle Stan asks, voice soft. Dipper keeps looking at the floor between his feet, thoughts of Schrödinger’s Ford ripping his psyche into unrecognizable pieces.

“No,” Dipper hears himself say on half second delay. “It’s fine. Thanks for visiting, Grunkle Stan.” His voice is flat, emotionless. Shattered. “See you Wednesday.”

For a second, Dipper’s sure Stan will refuse, and the little bubble of fear at that catches Dipper off guard. He should want Stan to stay, should want the distraction. But all he wants is to be left alone.

“Alright,” Stan says at last, followed by the sound of footsteps, the click of a cane on linoleum. “See you Wednesday, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your kind words and kudos! I've got quite a bit of this already written and the end is on the horizon, folks. I'm aiming for anywhere between ten and twelve chapters depending on how I decide to end this train wreck. So enjoy the ride, kiddies! Also, the tags will be changing in the next couple of chapters too, so keep checking back just in case. Cheers!


	5. Coming Apart at the Seams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Group therapy is a bust and another session with Dr. Cipher is worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a couple of days late! Work and life got away with me, but I'll make sure to get chapter six up no later than friday. Once again, keep reading the tags, because Dipper's torture is far from over.

“Alright Dipper,” The head of the group therapy session smiles at him in a way that makes him feel as though she never stops smiling. Wakes up smiling, goes to work smiling, comes home smiling, goes to sleep smiling. A permanent part of her face regardless of any actual emotional involvement. “Why don’t you tell us a little bit about Gravity Falls?”

Apparently this is something he does weekly, sits down with a group of people he doesn’t know and talks about his issues. It doesn’t seem like something he would do willingly, but maybe the him in this reality has given up on rebelling. Maybe the him in this reality is just looking for a little peace. Not that he expects to find any by talking about Gravity Falls.

“I’d rather not, thanks,” he says, focusing his attention instead on the small circle of other patients. He recognizes a few faces but mostly as people he might have met in passing. Other than that, it’s a circle of unfamiliar stares, most of which blatantly suspicious. Not that he hasn’t been treating everyone and everything here the same way, but his situation is different. Right?

“Come on, Dipper.” The moderator continues to smile. “You know that talking about it is the only way you’re ever going to be able to let it go.”

Dipper crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in his chair, making sure the twinge of defensiveness doesn’t show on his face. “I don’t think you have the medical authority to make those sorts of accusations. I’m pretty sure that’s my therapist’s job.” 

Not that he trusts Dr. Cipher as far as he can throw him.

For the first time since Wendy dragged him in here fresh out of breakfast, Dipper sees the woman’s smile falter. Not that it lasts very long. In fact, her smile almost looks this side of smug when she finally responds.

“I have more authority than you, my dear. And considering your recent relapses, I’d take better care to listen to those of us who only have your best interest at heart.”

Dipper frowns, looks towards the door of the recreation room they’re currently being held captive in, and contemplates escape.

“Does anything here follow doctor patient confidentiality?” Dipper snaps. “Or should I have asked Dr. Cipher for my file so you could read it allowed to the class?”

She’s still smiling, but it’s not even attempting to reach her eyes anymore. “Just tell us about Gravity Falls, Dipper.”

_An attic bedroom with pages upon pages of research above his bed. Reading the journal, Great Uncle Ford’s journal, until the sun comes up. Defeating zombies with Grunkle Stan and Mabel and awful attempts at three part harmony. Bunkers and spaceships and fighting for his life. Doing everything he can to save his friends and family from lumberjack ghosts and obnoxious fake psychics and triangular time demons hell bent on ruining his life. A summer vacation that changed his life forever._

_A summer vacation that happened. It happened. It was all real. It was._

“Like I said,” Dipper huffs, still looking at the door. “I’d rather not.”

“Dipper,” the moderator sighs, and Dipper wonders briefly if she’s still trying to maintain her simulated smile, but he’s instantly distracted by the door’s hesitant creak, blond hair and standard issue white shirt inching into his line of sight.

“Sorry I’m late,” a familiar, if not slightly older, more mature voice speaks up. The door swings the rest of the way open and in walks Pacifica Northwest, head held as high as usual, but with an air about her that’s distinctly less haughty. Though, considering their matching outfits, she has every reason not to be. “Is the session over?” She asks, taking a seat in one of the circle’s empty chairs. When Dipper glances at the moderator, her smile seems much more genuine.

“Of course not, my dear,” she says. “We still have plenty of time, if you’d like to talk about something.”

Dipper looks back at Pacifica, trying not to gawk and most likely failing.

She looks the same. Older, yes, but still somehow exactly as he remembers the twelve year old version of her to be. Something about that is oddly comforting.

“Did you want to share something with us today, Paz?”

_Paz…?_

It takes Dipper a disturbingly long time to realize that the moderator means Pacifica. And an even longer time to notice that Pacifica hasn’t started talking, choosing instead to stare at the center of the circle in silence, wringing her hands together.

“No,” she says at last. “I just… Didn’t feel like being alone.”

This seems like an acceptable response, apparently, because the moderator moves on to someone else in the circle, thankfully distracted from questioning Dipper further as well.

But Dipper doesn’t pay attention to the rest of the session, instead choosing to use it casting not so subtle glances in Pacifica’s direction. She seems unsettled, but in that way that Dipper’s sure he’s embodied since waking up in this nightmare. Dark circles under her eyes from little sleep, the involuntary twitch every time there’s a loud noise somewhere outside of the general vicinity, the defeated hunch of her shoulders. And yet still, her face remains steadfast, confident even. As though the decision to be here, in this hospital, in this support group, is hers and hers alone.

A thought from days ago filters in through the haze, his first few hours of this nightmare splitting apart into more discernable fragments of memory. Wendy had said the name of this place was the Northwest Mental Health Clinic.

Does that mean Pacifica’s parents-?

“What the hell are you looking at, Pines?” Pacifica’s voice snaps at him, ripping him out of his mental analysis. The room is silent, everyone looking from Pacifica to him and back. Apparently his staring had gone from not-so-subtle to blatant, event the moderator’s smile falling in disapproval.

“Nothing, sorry,” Dipper says, holding his hands up in defense and making a show of looking away. “I was just-”

“That’s enough, Dipper,” the moderator huffs, goes on to speak a little more about something Dipper has no desire to listen to. Especially when Pacifica continues to stare angrily at him from across the circle.

In no time at all, the session comes to an end, everyone filing out of the room, moderator first. Until eventually, only Pacifica and Dipper are left.

“I’m sorry,” Dipper says after a moment of awkward silence. “About earlier.”

Pacifica tosses her long blond hair over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. It’s so Pacifica it almost makes him want to hug her. “Whatever, Dipper. It’s not like I care.”

And true to form, that actually stings a bit, so Dipper pushes onward, tries again. “I mean it,” he says. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Pacifica cuts him off, fuming suddenly for some reason. “Let me confide in you and then act like it never happened? Let me open up and tell you all about the ghosts and my stupid fucking family and never once that you judge me over it and yet still you don’t-”

“Wait, wait a second, hold on,” Dipper barrels into her tirade, grabbing her shoulders in a sudden rush of disbelief. “Are you telling me you remember it all? The haunting at your family’s mansion?”

Pacifica’s jaw falls a bit slack, her eyebrows furrowing in her own sort of aggravated disbelief. “Of course I remember, Dipper… It’s plagued me for years.”

The rush of relief at those words is heady, all consuming. His knees nearly buckle with it, the only thing keeping him upright his hands on Pacifica’s shoulders.

“Thank god,” he grins. “Thank god you remember.”

“Dipper,” Pacifica hisses, pulling away with a harsh jerk. “What are you talking about?”

“The lumberjack ghosts! Everyone turning into wooden statues!” Pacifica goes to turn away but Dipper grabs her wrist, holds her in place. “You saved my life, Pacifica. And I’m just…” He lets her go, eyes burning with tears of relief. “I’m glad you remember that.”

It takes a moment, but eventually, Pacifica stumbles backwards, eyes aflame with an unexpected but particularly potent rage. “What the fuck are you talking about, Dip Shit?” She practically snarls. “I didn’t tell you all that stuff so you could make fun of me later!”

“I’m not!” Dipper reaches back towards her, a desperate grasp at his reality crumbling away again. “I wasn’t… I-I didn’t mean-”

“Wooden statues? Lumberjack ghosts?” She spits the words out like the taste of them itself is foul. “That’s not what happened at all! What are you even-?” Pacifica runs a hand through her hair, messing up her high, blond ponytail. “My family’s mansion was haunted by ghosts, sure. But they weren’t fucking _lumberjacks._ And who the hell said anything about _people_ turning into _wooden statues_? Jesus, Dipper… You weren’t even there! What gives you the right…?” Her eyes are welling up now, and Dipper doesn’t know what to do, how he could possibly make this train wreck any worse. 

So, instead, he just takes a step back, looks at his feet, hoping that she’ll take the hint and go away. It hurts too much, having even that modicum of hope wrenched from his grasp. What was the point of seeing Pacifica here? Was it to test him? To make him think that maybe some little slice of his own reality had broken through this nightmare? Or was it just to prove to him that even the smallest of memorable details was a fabrication? That even lumberjack ghosts and Pacifica Northwest could be something his fragile subconscious had made up to cope with a lack of Gravity Falls?

“I’m sorry, Pacifica,” Dipper says at last, even though she’s already turned away in a huff. “I just thought-”

“You know what, Dipper?” Pacifica glances over her shoulder, back straight and words laced deep with venom and unbridled hurt. “It doesn’t matter what you thought. Just keep your stupid theories to yourself from now on. I’m done.”

He watches her go, not quite sure what to make of that comment. In fact, the only thing he’s sure of now, is the acidic churn of hopelessness bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

 

xxx

 

Dipper is ten minutes early to his appointment with Dr. Cipher, standing outside the door in silence, waiting. 

He doesn’t have anything else to do, really. Wake up, eat, appointment with his therapist, eat again, sleep, have nightmares about Gravity Falls, wake up again. Wash, rinse, repeat until his life becomes one linear stream of consciousness. Stuck forever in a constant loop. Outside of the occasional family visit or the laughable attempt at a group therapy session, that leaves Dipper little choice but to just wait for time to pass.

And even if seeing Pacifica had been a potential change of pace, he’d fucked that right up beyond repair.

“Oh,” Dr. Cipher’s voice appears just a few feet down the hall, headed in his direction. “Good morning, Dipper. Ready for our session?”

Dipper doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even nod in agreement, just waits for Dr. Cipher to unlock his office door and let him inside. He takes a seat in his usual chair without being told, eyes locked on the solid gold pyramid acting as a paperweight at the corner of Dr. Cipher’s desk.

“Everything go well with your uncle yesterday?”

Tension. Insecurity. The beginnings of fear.

“Great Uncle,” Dipper says, voice rough, tired.

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Cipher says, casually fixing his mistake. “Great Uncle.” The bubble of rising panic dissipates, the tension lessens, a blanket of nothingness settles back over his shoulders. “Did you have a good visit?”

Dipper shrugs. He’s still not exactly sure what to make of it, honestly. Ford is dead. Ford is alive. He knows what he wants to believe, but he doesn’t trust himself to. Not after all this. Not in this reality. Not anymore. He’s mostly just been trying not to think about it.

Dr. Cipher doesn’t seem too adamant about his response, however. Instead, he just leans back in his chair, scribbling something into what Dipper has assumed to be his file. Eight years of his life that he doesn’t remember, all tucked away in a manila folder.

“So what did you dream about last night, Dipper?” Dr. Cipher asks eventually, putting his pen down and directing one hundred percent of his attention back in Dipper’s direction. For some reason, having that singular stare locked in so completely on him leaves Dipper feeling strangely naked, layers upon layers of clothes, skin, nerves, peeled away piece by piece.

And even despite all that, Dipper feels himself flush, fold in on himself a bit. Because last night’s dream was… different. Still filled with Gravity Falls and chaos and pain, but as each gruesome scene came to a close, it was with Dr. Cipher looming over him, comforting or praising or in one case... It wasn’t _explicit_ per say, but Dipper still feels less than inclined to share. So Dipper swallows, looks down at his lap, fingers interlocked and gripping tight enough to feel the tendons in his hands beneath his fingertips.

“Same as usual,” he says.

“More nightmares then?” Dr. Cipher says after a moment, though his voice sounds… amused? No. But strangely knowing nonetheless. Though how he could possibly know anything that’s been going on in Dipper’s head since he got here…

“I only have nightmares anymore,” Dipper says without thinking. And it feels like too much, like he’s just spilled a deep, dark secret that will lead to some sort of catastrophic death. But Dr. Cipher just sighs.

“Look at me, Dipper,” He says, and Dipper doesn’t want to, wants to keep looking at his hands, wants to keep sitting there in silence, heart pounding and mind racing, and pretend like everything isn’t as confusing and painful as it always, always is. But he looks anyway. Really looks.

The Dr. Cipher from his dream isn’t anything different from the man before him, really. In fact, somewhere in the back of Dipper’s mind, it amazes him just how identical a fabrication his subconscious was able to create. The same light brown skin, the same frame of surprising blond hair over one of his eyes, features just as angular, body just as fit and strong, face just as handsome-

Wait. What?

“Do you understand, Dipper?” Dr. Cipher has been speaking apparently, Dipper’s mind blanking out under the sudden rush of attraction he knew wasn’t there a second ago. Or was it? That is, there must have been something subconscious there, at least, for him to be dreaming about the guy, right? But no! Not only is Dr. Cipher his _doctor_ , but he’s Bill! Or, at least, Dipper’s pretty _sure_ he’s Bill. And Bill is only out to destroy him. Torture him until he’s broken Dipper’s brain beyond repair. But then why go to the trouble of making this version of himself, Dipper’s therapist, someone Dipper would be attracted to? Not that Dipper would be attracted to anyone with tan skin and blond hair and a jawline like Adonis or-

_Wh-What the hell?_

“Dipper?” Dr. Cipher reels Dipper back from the ledge of his mental tirade, staring at him in a mixture of amusement (definite this time) and confusion. Dipper’s pretty sure any attempts at hiding his blush now is pointless, his whole face growing hot, a feeling very similar to panic itching at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” Dipper clears his throat, forces himself to look away from Dr. Cipher’s prying gaze. “What was the question?”

Dr. Cipher chuckles, leans back in his chair. “Come here, Dipper.”

The way Dipper’s whole body tenses at that, his heart rate spiking, is completely involuntary. Dipper glances back at Dr. Cipher cautiously. “What for?”

“I said come here, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher repeats, not angry or even frustrated, really, but persistent. “Just for a second.”

Slowly, Dipper gets to his feet, walks the short distance around the edge of the desk, and stands in front of Dr. Cipher nervously. Dr. Cipher doesn’t seem fazed, looking up at Dipper with a small smile before turning his chair towards him and patting his lap. That motion is damn near universal, but still, Dipper can’t seem to make sense of it. Why would his doctor be-?

“Have a seat, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher smiles, looking for all the world like a doting father simply waiting to have a heart to heart with their son. Somehow, this makes Dipper feel even more creeped out.

“Excuse me?” Dipper chokes, shifting to take a step back, but Dr. Cipher reaches out before he can do so, grabs at his wrist, and pulls. Dipper stumbles, nearly colliding with the desk, but manages to right himself at the last second. Mostly by balancing half of his body on Dr. Cipher’s lap.

“There now,” Dr. Cipher practically purrs, lifting Dipper up with far more strength than should be possible, until Dipper is more comfortably situated across Dr. Cipher’s legs. It takes everything Dipper has not to struggle away or melt into a puddle of embarrassment. Surely this isn’t proper medical procedure.

“Listen, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher goes on as if what they’re doing isn’t in the least bit out of the ordinary. He even begins rubbing soothing circles into Dipper’s back, which feel nice, but don’t necessarily soothe him. At all. “Everyone has relapses. It’s just a part of life. And before now, you’d been doing so, so well. It’s only a matter of time before you find yourself again. And when you do, all of this will seem like a memory of a bad dream.”

Dipper wants that to be true more than anything. But he doesn’t want to achieve it by accepting that Gravity Falls doesn’t exist. He wants to wake up back in the Shack, twelve years old again, with Mabel and Stan and Ford, and treat all of this like the nightmare he knows it already is. Thinks it is. Or something.

Maybe Dr. Cipher can feel the way his back tenses at the inner conflict, can sense somehow that his words are only making Dipper feel worse. Maybe he can tell, just by being so close, that Dipper is very near tears, eyes already stinging, vision already blurring. Because Dr. Cipher pulls Dipper into his chest, massaging Dipper’s shoulder with one hand and resting the other in a half hug around Dipper’s waist. And dammit, if Dipper doesn’t lean into it, closes his eyes and lets himself feel comforted for once.

All he wants to do is go home.

“It’s alright, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher whispers, voice close and warm and Dipper wants to believe it so badly. “It’s going to be alright. I’m here.”

He knows what he believes. He does. But for a brief second, Dipper wonders if that’s enough. Is it really worth it, all this pain and suffering and psychological torture? Would he really be happier if he just-

Dipper pulls away, not quite out of Dr. Cipher’s grasp, but enough to breathe, his heart climbing up into his throat, each breath heavy and raw.

What the hell is he _thinking_? How could he even _consider_ such a thing?

“Everything alright, Dipper?” Dr. Cipher chimes in again, reminding Dipper of how close they are, how not quite right everything about this seems. Dipper looks at his therapist a bit more closely, eyes trailing over his face. He seems so earnest, concerned. And maybe it would be best, just to let Dr. Cipher lead him by the hand away from the pain of false memories. Maybe it would be easier if he just accepted that everything he thinks he knows is a lie, that the truth is Northwest Mental Health Clinic and visiting hours on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Dr. Cipher. No more Bill, no more maniacal plots for revenge. Just Dr. Cipher.

Without really meaning to, Dipper reaches forward, hand surprisingly steady as it inches towards Dr. Cipher’s face. Dr. Cipher doesn’t react, just watches, waits to see what his patient will do. Dipper doesn’t even really know why he does it, just lets his fingers inch beneath the strands of blond hair, pushing them out of Dr. Cipher’s face.

And revealing the empty expanse of void beneath.

Dipper’s pretty sure he screams, pretty sure he jerks away, pretty sure he attempts to rip himself from Dr. Cipher’s ( _Bill Cipher. How could he have been so stupid? It’s always been Bill Cipher’s_ ) awkward half hug, half stranglehold. But Dr. Cipher’s arms are longer, twining around him two, three, four times over, keeping him in place. And Dipper can’t stop looking at that void, watches wide eyed and paralyzed as it envelopes Dr. Cipher’s other eye until it is one large, gaping hole at the center of the doctor’s forehead, a world of chaos within.

“Let me go!” Dipper hears himself cry, but it’s muted and distant, echoing off into nothing.

“You really need to stop doing this, Pine Tree,” Dr. Cipher sighs, voice metallic and too loud, deafening. Dipper cringes, keeps struggling to pull away, even though pretty much every inch of him is certain that it’s futile. “You’re only hurting yourself at this point.” Dr. Cipher’s grin inches past the edges of his face, a toothy Cheshire cat smile. “And honestly, kid? After a while, it stops being fun and just starts being sad.”

“Please! Please just stop this!” The request is out before he can bite his tongue, and it’s met with the sound of distant laughter, a cackle both outside and inside of time itself, outside and inside of Dipper’s own head.

“How can I say no to that face?” Bill all but giggles, bringing his own face so close to Dipper’s that he has to look away or see double. “Especially when it begs so prettily! You have lots of practice with that, huh, Pine Tree? Begging?”

Dipper turns his head away and closes his eyes tight, the action causing the first spill of tears to betray him. “Please,” he repeats, nearly choking on a sob. “Please, Bill. Just-”

“Dipper?” Dr. Cipher’s voice, his usual voice, no metallic echoes, no distant chortling, suddenly grasps at his attention. “Dipper, what happened? What’s going on?” Dipper shakes his head, puts his hands over his ears.

“No,” he moans. “No, no, no, stop.”

Because it’s obvious what Bill is doing. And the moment Dipper turns around he’ll be met with that horrific sight again, or worse, and he can’t handle it right now. He’s not strong enough. Not anymore.

“Dipper, look at me,” Dr. Cipher repeats, that same tone of concern from earlier, but Dipper’s frozen in place, too far gone to even properly process the sudden lack of demonic restraints.

“No,” he whimpers, caves in on himself instead, but Dr. Cipher refuses to be dissuaded, grabbing at Dipper’s jaw and forcing him to look.

“Dipper,” he says, more sternly this time. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

“Please don’t make me,” Dipper whispers, tries to pull his face out of Dr. Cipher’s grip, but the man holds fast.

“You were just having another attack, Dipper. It’s alright now.” Dr. Cipher explains, and it sounds logical. But Dipper can’t bring himself to believe it. Won’t. Refuses to. “Just look at me and you’ll see.”

It takes him minutes, maybe hours, to finally crack an eye open, and minutes, hours, days, after that for his heart to stop racing. Dr. Cipher looks just as he always has, every inch of him the same as the second before Dipper had-

Dipper reaches forward again, more quickly this time, with purpose. His fingers brush the hair out of Dr. Cipher’s eyes almost harshly, pressing the strands to the side of his face, out of the way. He’s met with no void, no empty expanse of chaos and rift-like emptiness. Just two perfectly normal, perfectly human eyes.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Dr. Cipher asks, eyes sad and smile soft, pitying. Dipper carefully lowers his hand, lets Dr. Cipher’s hair fall back into place, and shakes his head.

“No,” he says, lets his head fall into the juncture of Dr. Cipher’s shoulder and neck. “It wasn’t… I’m fine.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, lets the feel of Dr. Cipher rubbing circles into his back again ease his frantic heart. “It was nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is brutal. Be warned.


	6. Pointless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper hits rock bottom. Bill leaves him a shovel to keep digging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the tags. If you're not easily triggered and would prefer this monstrosity to be a fresh and unspoiled slap to the face, then feel free to continue on your merry way. If not, scroll up, take a peek, and prepare yourself.

Later, if asked, he’ll blame the nightmares. Might even believe that’s where it starts, a particularly bad dream wherein he wakes up and wakes up and wakes up without ever really being awake, until he’s not even sure of the line between consciousness and nightmare anymore. 

Then again, it might have started way before that, the moment this had become his new reality. The moment Gravity Falls became a question instead of a statement. A possibility instead of a certainty. Maybe this had been Bill’s endgame all along. Not torture, but elimination. The removal of a threat. Dipper tries to take some small consolation in the idea that he’d been any sort of threat to the omnipotent demon at all, but it seems a rather pointless comfort.

Either way, it’s an easy decision, in the end. Inevitable almost.

It’s not that he wants to die. Not really. But he doesn’t want to live in a world without Gravity Falls, either. That desire is stronger.

It only ends up taking four days.

Twenty-four pills. Two in the morning, two in the evening, two at night. Lying to the staff is easy. Lying to Wendy is harder. But eventually he has a stash going, hidden away in the back of the drawer where the torn up remnants of his “journal” still sit. The methodical act of it is almost soothing. Acquire the pills, pretend to take them, hide them away, contemplate when.

When is probably the hardest.

There’s a comfort in the journey. Will he still have that once he gets to his destination?

Even if he doesn’t… _Anything is better than here._

It does end up being a dream that gives him his When, though. Not even the worst of dreams he’s suffered here, even. Just the final crack in an already shattered psychological vase, water spilling like rivulets of blood from every vein, filling his mind with one thought.

_I give._

Dipper sits up in his bed, runs a hand through hair, still damp with sweat. He can see the dream so clearly, Ford’s hand on his shoulder, Mabel holding him back by the wrist, Grunkle Stan’s grip winding tight into the fabric of Dipper’s collar.

 _“You have no home here anymore!”_ Grunkle Stan yells, voice clear as day, the Shack falling to dilapidated pieces behind him. _“What are you still doing here, kid?”_

 _“We can’t keep doing this…”_ Mabel cries, falling to her knees at his side, her hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist. It hurts. Everything hurts. _“Why do you keep doing this to us?”_

But it’s Ford’s voice that does it, a somber whisper in his ear that breaks him beyond repair.

_“There’s no point, Dipper. Just go.”_

And then nothing. Just him in an endless void, everything he’s ever loved replaced by darkness. 

He barely recognizes the difference when he actually wakes. But as the reality of it sinks in, he knows, feels his eyes drift through the darkness of the early morning to rest on his nightstand. To the drawer that holds his means to an end.

His movements are robotic, inching forward with an ingrained purpose that allows for his mind to simply shut off. Just allow it to happen. Knees bend, arms reach, drawer opens, fingers search, hand closes around the small folded paper filled with pills. Dipper doesn’t even bother to get back up, just sits on the floor next to his bed, carefully peeling back the paper flaps and pouring the contents into the palm of his hand.

He’s not quite sure how long he sits there, just looking at them. Twenty-four pills. More than enough, right? Should he wait and collect more?

That thought sends a sickening lurch through him, his stomach clenching in a reluctance he can’t ignore. No. Twenty-four should be more than enough for what he wants to do. Needs to do.

He doesn’t have water, but he read somewhere that chewing pills makes them activate quicker. Quicker sounds good. It would be an unexpected charity, a quick release. 

So, without giving himself anymore time to dwell, Dipper raises his hand to his mouth, lets the small, round pills coat his tongue, and begins to crush as many as he can at a time between his teeth.

The taste is horrendous. Bitter. A flash of a memory, science class a few years back, something about the merits of taste and their correlation with edible versus inedible. His body doesn’t want him to do this, is sending the first warning it can think of.

_Disgusting! Bitter! Poison! Stop!_

But even if his body doesn’t want this, every other part of him does. So he continues to chew, swallows as much of the powdery paste as possible, once, twice, again. It takes years, it feels like, until he’s managed to rid his mouth of every trace. All twenty-four pills, crushed and swallowed and leaving nothing behind but a thin film of bitter numbness on his tongue.

Dipper waits for the fear to set in. The regret. 

It doesn’t.

He waits for his life to flash before his eyes. For his mind to get hazy or his body to rebel. For something, anything to happen.

Nothing does.

In fact, nothing happens for long enough that Dipper starts to wonder if he’s messed this up too. If maybe, they’d been giving him placebos all along and he’s just been tricked into attempting suicide with sugar pills. Another deception. Another mockery of his reality. Another piece of evidence that he’s lost control of everything. Dipper lets his head fall back hard against the frame of the bed, lets his eyes close in the hopes of quelling the sudden burn of tears.

Which is the moment he starts to get dizzy.

He tries to open his eyes again, but they feel a bit too heavy for that, so he just keeps them closed. In fact, all of him feels a bit too heavy, really. Limbs, thoughts, even his breaths feels heavier, like there’s a golden pyramidal paperweight resting on his chest. Which doesn’t make sense, because that should be in Dr. Cipher’s office. And also, he’s sitting up, so, it should be more like something pushing into his chest, not sitting on his chest, right? But either way, it’s getting really hard to breathe.

With this revelation comes the even more potent acceptance that no. They were not sugar pills.

_I’m dying._

The thought floats across his mind like the memory of a memory, already gone before he can even properly process it. He knows it to be true, somewhere deep down where survival is inherent. But he also, for some reason, doesn’t seem to care all that much. About anything.

_I’m dying. Finally._

Yes. That seems more accurate. Though, even more so would be-

_I’m dying. Finally. It could hurry up a bit though._

His cheek is cold, something hard is poking into his temple. Dipper tries his eyes again. Still heavy. Too heavy to move both of them at once. He focuses on one, using every inch of mental willpower and lid strength he has to pry it open. It works, just long enough for him to realize he’s fallen over. He’s lying in what should be a pretty uncomfortable position on the floor next to his bed. Oh. Well this position is okay too, he supposes. It won’t matter soon anyway.

He lays there in mental silence for a moment, listening to the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. If it has any direct connection to his heart, then it’s beating really fast. Too fast. He suddenly wishes he knew exactly what symptoms come first in all this, so he could mark them off as they go. He wants to know how much time he has left. Not that time seems very relevant anymore. He’s already let his eye fall closed again, but he can still see the darkness of his room past his eyelids. Maybe no time has passed at all. 

_Maybe I’m already dead._

No. He’s pretty sure, even if his cognitive thought is bordering on nonsensical, it’s still there. Cognitive thought equals brain function equals still alive. Though even that concept seems poorly formed, like the logic of it may unravel at any second.

Cognitive thought equals fabrication of his own subconscious equals Gravity Falls doesn’t exit.

And that’s why he’s here, isn’t it? Because Gravity Falls doesn’t exist. Because Ford is dead and not dead. Because Mabel and Stan come and visit him once a week and still look at him like he’s two seconds away from-

Well. Two seconds away from this, actually.

Mabel will never forgive him. Stan probably won’t either. Not that he blames them. He’s mad at himself, really, for being so selfish. For being a coward. He wasn’t strong enough to fight this, in the end. He wasn’t brave enough to hold on to what he believed in. He was crushed beneath the possibility that he was wrong. And now, it doesn’t matter. None of it does.

He’s not even sure if he’s still breathing, can’t really feel much of anything anymore, not even the cold linoleum beneath his cheek. Everything feels kind of numb, actually. Disconnected. Vacant. He chooses not to think about it.

He chooses to think of Gravity Falls instead.

He misses it. He feels that, the ache in his chest that comes from missing something so completely. And he does. He’s never missed anything as much as he misses Gravity Falls and being twelve and sharing the attic bedroom with Mabel and doing chores for Grunkle Stan and going on adventures with Great Uncle Ford and this ache hurts a little too much, actually.

In fact, this ache hurts a lot less like an ache and a lot more like genuine, writhing agony.

His chest is being torn to shreds, surely. There’s no other explanation for all this pain. He tries to scream, tries to move, but all he gets for it is another sharp burn in his chest, and the added sensation of what must be his stomach rupturing from within.

This time, when he tries to scream, cry out, call for help, anything, he’s met with a distant gurgle and the inability to breathe.

Oh. He’s choking.

Everything after that comes in and out in flashes of excruciating torment. He’s pretty sure it’s daylight at one point, too bright even behind his tightly closed eyelids. Why won’t he just die already? Surely he’s suffered enough by now? Unless this is death. Endless pain, endless suffering. That hardly seems fair. 

_“Life isn’t fair, kid.”_

No. He must still be alive. But then why?

_“Because we’re not done playing yet.”_

Dipper feels the blockage in his throat vanish, the choking subside under a rush of wet, wheezing coughs. The pain is immense, a beacon through the fog. His stomach spasms, a new pain, a deeper pain. The lights are too bright, fluorescents not daylight. It’s a distant echo, but Dipper can hear chaos all around him. 

His blurred vision is overwhelmed by blond hair and tan skin and two very human eyes. His lips are saying something, not to Dipper though. But Dipper tries to say something back anyway, something that, in his deteriorating mindscape, roughly translates to, _I thought this was what you wanted._

It’s not as though everything seems to stop or even slow down. It’s just that, all of a sudden, Dipper’s focus becomes singular, every ounce of his cognizance dedicated to the look on Dr. Cipher’s face, on the words that don’t so much leave his mouth as filter directly into Dipper’s head.

_“Nice try, Pine Tree. But this is only fun if you’re alive.”_

The darkness that consumes him next is too fragile, too painful to be death. But he lets it have him anyway, if only just for one blissful moment of quiet peace.

 

xxx

 

That peace is short lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.
> 
> I'll try to get chapter seven up before friday. You know. Like a consolation for your suffering. 
> 
> Sort of.


	7. Mind Over Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." -Hotel California

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully a little bit of relief after the last chapter. But don't get me wrong. Things are hardly on the up and up and rarely ever what they seem.

This time when Dipper jolts into consciousness, it’s with a ringing in his ears and a splitting headache. They die down quickly enough into an ignorable throbbing, but not before serving as a brutal reminder of the night before.

Dipper is suddenly wide awake, wracked with an adrenaline that yanks him into a sitting position, hands roaming over his chest, head, throat in harsh, reaffirming grasps.

_I’m still… alive?_

Dipper lets his head fall into the hand not currently wrapped tightly in the fabric of his collar. How had he managed to mess up so badly? How is it that, even in something that should have been cut and dry, perfectly simple and easily executed, he still managed to fuck everything up? He’s still here. Still here and still alive and that just makes everything feel so much worse than it ever was.

He hears the door to his room creak open like gunfire, his whole body going tense. Good god, who’d found him last night? What had they done to save him? Stomach pump? He doesn’t feel like he’s had his insides drained. But there’s no other explanation for how he’s still here, still trapped in this nightmare.

“Ready for breakfast, Dipper?” Wendy inches around the corner, wheeling in a cart topped with a tray of food, a cup of pills, and a small pitcher of orange juice. “It’s pancakes, sausage, and a banana. I snuck you a few extra pieces of sausage though,” she winks. “Our little secret.”

And that’s… Really nice of her. But it’s also the exact same thing she did yesterday. In fact, this is exactly the same breakfast he ate yesterday morning too. Dipper’s stomach starts to sink.

“Thanks, Wendy,” he swallows, tries to remember exactly what he’d said to her as she’d left him with his breakfast the morning before. “What would I… Do without you?”

“Starve, probably,” Wendy says matter-of-factly, the exact same response she’d had yesterday morning, and Dipper’s heart stops. There’s no way.

“Um, Wendy?” Dipper calls her back as she starts wheeling the cart back out of his room. She looks over her shoulder at him, smiling. 

“What’s up, Dip?”

She’s too happy, too calm, for someone who should have heard about… what he’d tried to do last night. Which means, she either hasn’t heard, or-

“Did, um…” He scratches at the back of his neck, swallows again. “Were you... working yesterday?”

For a moment, she only looks at him, an eyebrow raised and a confused smile on her face. “Of course I was, Dipper. You know that.” He winces, but lets her continue. “I was responsible for checking your vitals last night, remember?”

Last night. But that wasn’t-

He should be used to the feeling of steadily rising panic by now. But as often as that rush of hot-cold prickles at the back of his neck now a days, grips at his chest in a way that should be debilitating, Dipper still feels thrown off guard.

Last night couldn’t have been- Last night he was-

“You alright, Dipper?” Wendy asks, about to take a step back into his room. It feels forced and probably doesn’t look even mildly believable, but he smiles at her in response.

“Yeah,” He says, attempting to keep his voice steady. “Just got my days confused, I guess.”

She seems convinced enough to offer him a still slightly confused smile of her own before finally leaving. Dipper’s out of his bed and kneeling next to his nightstand the moment she’s gone. His hands are shaking as he reaches for the bottom drawer, couldn’t stop them even if he’d wanted to. This shouldn’t be happening. Yesterday was supposed to have been his way to stop all this from happening. How could it have just-? How could he still be-?

He knows what he’s going to find before the drawer is even fully open.

There, tucked away in the corner, beneath the remnants of his “journal,” is the folded piece of paper that he knows, even without counting, holds twenty-four small, white pills.

Dipper barely even recognizes what he’s doing, his whole body practically vibrating with desperate, frantic energy, a rush of adrenaline that screams, _Not again, fix it, I can’t do this again, make it go away, this is all too much, too much, too much._

Because if Wendy did his vitals _yesterday_ and the pills are still here and not even his body is giving him any sign that he’d been resuscitated the night before-

_Then did it even happen…?_

Had it all been another sick, twisted nightmare? Had he actually just hallucinated his own suicide? The thought is like ice in his veins, like jumping overboard in the dead of winter, millions of knives stabbing, stabbing, stabbing until he can’t breath, can’t think of anything but one thing. The only possible solution:

If he didn’t do it before, he’ll do it now.

With fingers still trembling, Dipper unfolds the paper flaps, pours twenty-four pills into the palm of his hand, raises them to his mouth-

And promptly throws up.

His whole body seizes with the force of it, bile clawing its way out of his stomach to burn a trail of acid along his throat and mouth. Dipper drops the pills, coughing into his hand, his stomach lurching once, twice more.

He doesn’t know how he knows, but there’s no denying the sensation, his stomach adamant enough to leave him retching once more before finally, finally letting Dipper breathe.

This reality may have found a way to erase his attempted suicide from existence, but Dipper’s body remembers. Even if his mind is still too shattered to properly believe anything anymore, his body knows what it feels like to die, and apparently isn’t too thrilled to relive it.

Eyes watering and throat raw, Dipper grabs a towel from the closet to clean up. Most of the pills have fallen into the mess, useless now, but Dipper’s struck with the realization that it no longer matters. He doesn’t know how Bill did it, but there’s no doubt in his mind that he did.

Somehow, Bill kept him alive. Rewinding time, maybe. Perpetrating Dipper’s entire attempted suicide from inside the mindscape, possibly. Either way, in driving Dipper to his lowest point, he’d managed to also leave Dipper with a very valuable lifeline in the process: Proof. And the sudden, overwhelming desire to find a way back home. Back to his own time and his own reality.

Back to Gravity Falls.

He let Bill break him down once. He’ll be damned if he’s going to let him do it again.

 

xxx

 

It’s a hard thing to shake, this sudden shift in his perception. It’s like the two lives he’s been stretched thinly between have suddenly begun to cross, a Venn diagram of his realities creating a small, desperate third of him grasping for purchase somewhere in the middle.

Part of him _knows_ Gravity Falls exists. Part of him _knows_ Bill is manipulating this new reality to mess with his mind. But part of him also _knows_ he’s been here for ten years, _knows_ Dr. Cipher is nothing more than just that: his doctor. And in the midst of all that is this overlapping, cellophane version of himself that knows _nothing_. Someone lost and terrified and trapped between belief and disbelief, between knowing and not knowing. Between suicide and survival.

_No. Never again._

Dipper wraps the blanket of his hospital bed tighter around his waist, digging into his pancakes with a bit more vigor than is strictly necessary for fluffy disks of egg, sugar, and Bisquick. He stabs a neatly cut square with his fork and shoves it into his mouth, hardly tasting it and barely even paying attention. Bite, chew, swallow, repeat, think, think, think.

Just because he has proof of Bill’s involvement in this, however fragile that proof may be, doesn’t exactly mean he knows what to do with it.

Despite himself, Dipper jumps at the sound of his door opening again, his eyes automatically darting over to the hamper next to his closet, evidence of this morning dumped unceremoniously inside. There’s nothing out of place, and yet he still feels like a sign is flashing above his head screaming, _You did it. You broke me,_ at whoever walks in.

It turns out to be Dr. Cipher, and perhaps it’s the lingering hysteria, but he almost feels like laughing. There’s a certain level of irony here, he knows there is. Maybe it’s in Dr. Cipher being the last person he wants to see right now. Maybe it’s in the lingering sense of uncovered proof, of knowing that Bill knows that he knows that this is all Bill’s fault, a trick of the light, smoke and mirrors. Or maybe the irony is just in the simple fact that he doesn’t quite believe any of that yet, that just seeing Dr. Cipher makes him forget a little bit, makes him feel both hopeless and lost. Like he’s still waiting for the man to save him.

But he’s not a man. He’s a demon. And the hallow feeling of regret in the pit of Dipper’s stomach is a testament that. 

“Everything alright, Dipper?” Dr. Cipher smiles as he closes the door behind him. Dipper’s sure he’s just imagining it, but he can swear he hears the sound of it locking into place.

“Just eating breakfast,” Dipper says, looking down at his tray. He’s eaten nearly all of it and barely remembers doing so. 

Dr. Cipher is still smiling at him. It’s starting to make Dipper a little uncomfortable.

“I heard you had a bit of a hard day yesterday,” he says after what surely is an awkwardly drawn out silence. Made even more awkward when Dr. Cipher takes a seat at the edge of Dipper’s bed, thigh pressed right up against Dipper’s feet. Dipper swallows back his shudder and tries to think. His first instinct draws him back to his own memory of the real yesterday, the one where he’d tried to escape in the worst way possible. The one where Bill had won. But if this is all a game, then even if Bill knows that Dipper knows, then that’s not the hard day Dr. Cipher is referring to. It’s not the answer Bill is looking for.

Dipper thinks two days back instead, to the day he’d thought would be his last, the day where he’d finally decided he was done suffering.

“Just a bad day, that’s all,” Dipper says, retracing his steps. Wendy checking his vitals, pancakes and orange juice and sausages for breakfast, his session with Dr. Cipher- “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to storm out of your office.”

Dr. Cipher’s smile twitches, shifts a bit into something more… smug? Almost as if to say, “Good boy. Play along now. See how long you last this time.”

But the thing is, the longer he stares down his demons, the longer that flashing sign over his head starts to brighten, starts to shift and change and challenge.

 _You did it. You broke me,_ it still says. Only now with an additional, bright neon, _But it was your mistake to bring me back._

This time, when Dipper catches the subtle shift in Dr. Cipher’s smile, the self-satisfaction faltering a bit under Dipper’s blatantly challenging gaze, it’s with a hint of his own smugness.

“It’s only natural, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher says, and maybe Dipper is imaging the strain in his voice, but either way, it feels like triumph. Maybe he can do this. Maybe there’s still hope. Dr. Cipher places a hand on his leg and squeezes, a motion that, objectively, looks comforting, but his grip is too tight, his fingernails digging hard enough into the fabric for Dipper to feel the bite of them against his bare skin. So Dipper knows it for what it really is: a warning. 

Dr. Cipher’s face looks calm, both eyes visible, smile soft. It just makes him appear that much more threatening. “But you should really stop fighting me if you want to get better.”

Maybe it’s that little sliver of proof resting right behind his heart. Maybe it’s the newfound hope he’s clinging to. Maybe it’s just the sound of those words, how safe they appear, how kind and generous they seem. But he knows better. He _knows_ better. Whatever it is, something in Dipper snaps.

“You want me to get better, Dr. Cipher?” Dipper says, voice soft, head bowed, and hands tangled with a white-knuckled grip in the sheets.

“Of course I do, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher says, and his voice sounds so god damn genuine it makes Dipper want to scream. But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he just looks up, captures Dr. Cipher’s eye, and says sternly, plainly, “Then let me go home.”

For a moment, Dr. Cipher doesn’t seem to know how to respond, almost as if he’s toying with dropping the act or continuing on as the caring doctor; stuck between the chaos god looking to torture or the fake psychiatrist looking to heal.

In the end, the resolve on Dipper’s face must be too much for him to ignore.

“We’re not done yet, Pine Tree,” he says, lets go of Dipper’s leg and leans back, grinning.

“There’s no way you’re going to be able to keep convincing me this is real,” Dipper scoffs. “So what’s the point?”

“You give me too little credit,” Dr. Cipher sighs, rolls his eyes. Well. Eye. Dipper can only see the one not covered by his hair now.

“No,” Dipper shakes his head, points a finger in Dr. Cipher’s direction. “I think you’ve got that backwards. You don’t give _me_ enough credit.”

Dr. Cipher waves a hand in front of his face, dismissive. “The human mind is so fragile. It’s hilarious! By this time tomorrow, you’ll be right back to collecting your meds for attempt number two.”

It’s obvious Dr. Cipher expects him to cower at that, maybe even grow defensive, but all Dipper feels is a sudden rush of surprise. Followed instantly by relief. He practically laughs as he whispers, awestruck, “You really don’t understand humans at all, do you?”

Something in Dipper’s voice must catch him off guard, his eyes widening just so, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. But just as quickly as the expression flashes across his face, it’s gone. Replaced, once again, with a look of vague amusement. 

“I don’t need to understand _humans_ , Pine Tree,” he says, and suddenly, he’s leaning into Dipper’s personal space, a hand gripping at the headboard behind his head. Dipper can feel the weight of him pressing against his legs, the warmth of his breath against Dipper’s face. Slowly, he raises a hand, and places it at the center of Dipper’s chest, pushing down, making it harder and harder for Dipper to breathe. “I just need to understand _you_.”

He pushes past skin and sinew and rib with a loud crack, fingers wrapping around Dipper’s heart and wrenching it free, holding it in front of Dipper’s face. It drips hot and red into his lap. Dipper knows this isn’t possible, knows the pain isn’t real, it isn’t real, but he still screams.

“What’s the matter, Pine Tree?” Bill laughs, skin glowing a vibrant yellow as both of his eyes stretch into one large void at the center of his forehead. “You think you’re strong enough to fight me? You think your puny human mind will be able to overcome everything I’m going to do to you?” His fingers tighten just so around every inch of Dipper’s heart and he swears he suddenly knows what it feels like to die of a heart attack. Bill raises Dipper’s heart between them, so close that Dipper can smell his own blood, can feel the wetness of it against the tip of his nose. 

_It’s not real. It’s not real._

Bill raises the heart even further, blood splattering across the sheets between them, until it’s pressed against Bill’s lips. “You think _you_ can beat _me_?” He opens his mouth, presses the flesh of Dipper’s heart against his teeth, and bites. 

Fear and panic and pain and then Dipper succumbs, blacks out, lets the nightmare fade away into darkness. Though not before Bill’s chuckled words filter into unconsciousness behind him.

_“Don’t make me laugh.”_

 

xxx

 

Dipper’s hands are on his chest even before he opens his eyes, the burst of adrenaline at being conscious again gradually stifled by the feeling of ribs and skin and fabric exactly where they should be. No blood, no wound at all, and a fluttering bu-bump bu-bump beneath his fingertips.

Slowly, Dipper sits back up, hands still resting over his heart, and lets his eyes roam lazily around the room. It’s like no time has passed at all, his tray of food still stretched over his bed, still mostly eaten, the towel he’d used to clean the floor earlier still half sticking out of the hamper.

Bill didn’t even bother to rewind time, didn’t bother to change it at all this time. It’s almost like he’s saying, “Your move, kid. Let’s see what you can do.”

Well Dipper doesn’t intend to take this lying down. Not anymore. Bill might think he’s the master of games and playing pretend. He might think he knows what it takes to break a fragile human mind like Dipper’s. But what he’ll never understand is just how powerful a human mind can be when it’s got a goal to focus on. 

And Dipper’s is figuring out how to beat Bill and get back home.

Dipper pulls his hand away from his chest and feels his whole body go tense. His hand is distinctly wet, dripping even, and Dipper knows what he’s going to see even before he wills his eyes to look down.

Blood is dripping between his fingers, coating his skin in thick smears of crimson.

But no. His heart is exactly where it should be. He knows he’s not crazy. Knows it for a fact. So before the fear can set in, before his mind can start churning out insanity after insanity, Dipper takes a breath, holds it, and exhales. Carefully, as if each motion might ruin the illusion, Dipper returns his hand to his chest, feels the heartbeat beneath his fingertips, and waits.

The human mind is a powerful thing, and if Dipper has one thing, it’s faith in his own.

One heart beat, another, another, and he carefully pulls his hand away again, eyes on the skin of his open palm. Completely devoid of all traces of blood.

The relief is heady, but the motivation is grounding. Because it doesn’t matter if Bill is allowing this moment. It doesn’t matter if Dipper’s being tricked again, manipulated again. It doesn’t matter if he’s merely hallucinated the whole thing. For one brief and perfect moment, Dipper has control over his own mind. 

Without even realizing, Dipper finds himself smiling, grinning even. And isn’t that something.

“You see that, Bill?” He breathes, clenches his hand into a fist. He assumes Bill is listening, watching, always watching, but even if he’s not, even if he’s too confident to bother, Dipper doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and speaks anyway, listens to the sound of his own voice echoing off hospital room walls, and pretends he’s back in the Shack. Back in his room, already tearing apart Ford’s journal for a plan. “You see?” He whispers to himself, as he opens his eyes again, still grinning, bordering on madly. 

“My mind is stronger than you think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A know quite a few of you were reveling in the darkness with me, but fear not. A little bit of hope does not a happy story make. Dipper's struggles are far from over.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your unbelievable support in this venture. For my first Gravity Falls fic, your responses have been beyond expectation. So see you friday with bells on! And once again, keep your eyes on the tags, kiddies. They'll be changing again next week.


	8. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper has an idea. Then the idea has him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a light at the end of the tunnel, kiddies! But still a long way to go. And just because we can see the end doesn't mean it'll be an easy ride.
> 
> Also, tags have changed again. So feel free to look 'em over or read on and be surprised!

He’s done this before. It shouldn’t be hard.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. But as much as he knows what he’s capable of, knows that he’s beaten Bill in the mindscape before, he’s never had to deal with this.

He’s never had to combat his own doubt.

Part of him knows. Part of him is certain that this is the mindscape, that he can do anything he wants here, create whatever means necessary to get him out and back home. But as strong as that realization is, it’s still weakened by the part of him that’s uncertain, the part of him that’s been here long enough to wonder.

Is he just being hopeful?

What if he’s wrong? What if this has been his life the whole time? What if everything he’s seen, all the little pieces of proof he’s collected, were all just fabrications of his own desperate subconscious?

 _No._

He’s not going to let his self doubt beat him. Not again. He’s stronger than that now. 

All he needs is a way to prove it.

He decides to start with something simple. Something that won’t be noticed. Something like… Changing the wallpaper?

Dipper nods to himself, tries to boost determination, and sits himself down in front of one of his hospital room walls.

He’s done this before. He’s made laser beams shoot out of his eyes for god’s sake. If this is really the mindscape, changing the drab, off-white wallpaper into a lighter blue shouldn’t be impossible. Right? 

Dipper closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He pictures the walls recoloring themselves, off-white melting away to reveal a robin’s egg blue underneath. He opens his eyes.

Still off-white.

Damn.

Dipper shakes his head, pinches at the bridge of his nose in frustration. This. Shouldn’t. Be. That. Hard.

Unless he’s actually crazy and all of these attempts are noting more than the frantic clinging of a dying mind.

_Stop it. This isn’t helping, Dipper. Just stop._

Dipper leans back onto his hands, staring at the wall. He’s in the mindscape. He just has to keep reminding himself of that. Bill pushed him far, farther than he’d ever thought himself capable of going, but he’d shown his hand too. He’s shown his hand plenty of times. There should be enough proof to irrefutably dispute Dipper’s insanity. But then-

_But then why is this so fucking hard?_

He feels like he’s battling an endless war with himself. On the one hand, he gives in. He accepts that this is his life and that everything he’s ever known is a lie. On the other hand, he fights. He refuses to accept anything, refuses to believe that any of this is real. After everything he’s been through, the latter should be the obvious answer. And yet.

Dipper stares at the wall until his eyes go blurry, stingy. He lets his head fall between his shoulders, chin digging into his chest, still unblinking, looking at his crossed legs, his feet.

He’s been here for too long.

“Okay, okay,” Dipper sighs, running a hand over his face a bit more harshly than is probably necessary. “Focus.”

_Off-white to light blue. Off-white to light blue._

“Um, Dipper?” Wendy’s voice yanks him out of his attempt at fabricating reality, Dipper nearly falling over in attempt to turn his whole body in her direction.

“Oh, uh,” Dipper clears his throat, tires not to look as awkward and suspicious as he knows he does. “Wh-wha’ts up?”

Wendy stares at him for a moment before chuckling softly to herself, looking at him with sad but affectionate eyes. He hates it. He wishes she would stop.

“I just came to see if you were ready for your session with Dr. Cipher,” she says eventually, and out of nowhere, Dipper is struck with an idea so fierce and sudden he thinks for a moment that it must be planted. Surely Bill wouldn’t be so stupid. Surely the reason for Dipper’s failure wouldn’t be so simple. But Dipper’s hardly in a place to ignore any possibility of hope, now, is he?

Maybe, just maybe, the answer has been staring him in the face this whole time.

“Of course!” Dipper smiles, a bit too eager, probably, scrambles to his feet a bit too quickly, definitely. “I was just… Daydreaming.”

“Alright,” Wendy keeps smiling, that same confused, sad, pitying smile. So unlike his Wendy. The _real_ Wendy. “Well come on then, Socrates. The doctor’s waiting.”

 

xxx

 

This, however. This he’s never done before. This is going to be very, very hard.

He wishes he were more doubtful, actually. He wishes that his grand idea from earlier had shown more faults, more holes. He wishes he were a bit less desperate. Because he really doesn’t want to do this. He really doesn’t. But something about it feels right. Something about it feels like the trump card he’s been looking for.

It just requires a little… acting. And more than a little of his dignity.

“Welcome back, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher says as soon as Dipper closes the office door behind him; he doesn’t even bother to look up from the files he’s currently jotting stuff down into. For some reason, he sounds less friendly, less cordial, like he’s less invested in putting up the front. But that might just be Dipper over-analyzing. Looking for more proof.

“Thanks,” Dipper replies, and this time he lets himself feel awkward and out of place. Because for what he plans to do, it can only help him. Or, at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. “I know I’m early.”

“You’re right on time,” Dr. Cipher smiles, finally, finally looking up. Dipper knows there are two very human eyes positioned beneath the fall of his hair. He knows the man’s voice isn’t dissonant or echoed through space time. He knows Dr. Cipher is nothing more than his doctor. 

But Dipper also knows that all of that is complete and total bullshit.

“Right,” Dipper takes a breath. Steels himself. “I um…” It’s a lot harder than he gave himself credit for. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you… about something.”

Dr. Cipher raises an eyebrow at him, casual amusement giving way to genuine curiosity. “What about, if I may ask?” 

Dipper licks his lips. It’s a calculated motion that feels unnatural and forced, but with the way that Dr. Cipher’s eyes dip down to watch, tracking the movement with an almost involuntary efficiency, something determined starts to form at the center of Dipper’s chest.

“I’ve been having these… dreams,” Dipper starts, figures it’s safest. Because it’s not exactly a lie. Half truths, more like. He _has_ been having dreams, most of them unsettling, some of them just plain unusual, but a select few… “Kind of, um… Explicit dreams? Maybe?” His heart is pounding, playing percussion to his own embarrassment. But if he’s right, if this is the saving grace he needs, it’ll be worth it. “A-About… You?”

Dipper lets his head fall into his hands, lets the humiliation wash over him. Because if he was a version of himself that had no ulterior motives, if he was a version of himself with no purpose here besides talking to his doctor, then this would be normal. This would be his confession. The beginning of the end.

As expected, Dr. Cipher doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t brush the whole thing away, doesn’t make Dipper feel like a freak for having these thoughts about his doctor that Bill so obviously must have put there. Obviously. 

No. Instead, he just sighs, allows them both to sit in silence for a moment. And then-

“Oh Dipper,” He says, and his voice still sounds like Dr. Cipher. That’s a good sign, right? Though it makes something uncomfortable and warm settle at the pit of Dipper’s stomach. “You should have told me sooner.”

Dipper wills himself to look up, to lock eyes with Dr. Cipher. He knows full well what he’s going to see, but it still sets his nerves on edge. The smirk that lines the man’s lips is pure entendre, the glint in the eye that Dipper can see somewhere in the general vicinity of devious. Dipper nibbles at his bottom lip and as if on cue, Dr. Cipher’s eye dips down to watch.

And Dipper knows Bill has been putting these dreams in his head. He knows that his attraction to Dr. Cipher has been planted, manipulated, put together piece by piece into something that Bill wants it to be. But that doesn’t mean it’s not still there. That doesn’t mean it’s not still discombobulating to witness. Especially when Dipper feels something akin to a twisted curiosity growing like a weed at the center of his chest. 

But he doesn’t want this. Bill wants this. And that’s why he’s here. So focus. Focus.

Dipper gets to his feet before he can change his mind. It’s one step, then another, and he’s back around Dr. Cipher’s desk. It’s more difficult than he expected it to be, but Dipper forces himself to press on, settle one leg on either side of Dr. Cipher’s chair and straddle the doctor’s lap.

“I don’t know,” Dipper starts, lets himself sound vulnerable. And maybe he is. Maybe he always has been. But at least he’s vulnerable with a plan this time. “I don’t understand why.” Dipper carefully wraps his arms around Dr. Cipher’s shoulders, tries not to give too much away. If he shows his hand too soon, then this will all have been pointless. He doesn’t know if he can stomach that right now. So Dipper leans in, just a bit. “Why do I feel this way, Dr. Cipher?”

Dr. Cipher’s grin is unsettling. Hungry. It makes a shiver run like a bolt of electricity up Dipper’s spine. Something very much like fight or flight crackles underneath his skin. But Dipper stays, keeps himself in place, even when Dr. Cipher reaches a hand up to grasp at the back of Dipper’s neck. Trapping him there.

“There’s no harm in this, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher practically hums, voice deep and dripping with a syrupy sweetness that makes Dipper want to simultaneously melt into a puddle of submission and run screaming. He hates that he can’t tell which instinct is stronger. 

Dipper can feel the pressure of Dr. Cipher’s hand tugging him closer, and he lets it, lets himself fall a little bit, drown a little bit.

Dr. Cipher glances from Dipper’s lips to his eyes and back. There’s no denying the implication, but Dipper is out of his depth. He’s supposed to be focusing, but he can barely remember on what anymore.

 _Think, Dipper. Don’t lose yourself. You’re in control here,_ Dipper tries to tell himself, but the ebb and flow of Dr. Cipher’s voice has him drifting away again.

“It’s only natural that things would turn out this way,” he says, and then he covers the distance between them.

This is his first kiss. Isn’t it?

Dipper’s heart stutters and his stomach drops. His whole world blips out of existence for a moment with the exception of the feeling of lips pressed against his own. Dipper almost can’t help himself, leaning into the sensation, trying to pull himself in closer, sink in deeper.

This is dangerous. This is intoxicating.

This isn’t what he came here to do.

Okay. Well. It was. But he’d had a plan, hadn’t he? There’s supposed to be a purpose for this.

Dipper tries to separate what’s going on from what he should be doing. It’s a lot harder than he gave it credit for. Especially when Dr. Cipher bites at his bottom lip, licks into his mouth, chuckles a warm breath against his jaw. Dipper’s pretty sure he’s making embarrassing noises. He’s pretty sure the way he tilts his head so Dr. Cipher can graze his teeth against Dipper’s neck is kinda condemning. But he’s too overwhelmed, dizzy with it.

_Distracted._

Oh right. That’s it.

If there was ever a time.

Dipper blocks out the feeling of Dr. Cipher’s teeth against his pulse point. He blocks out the feeling of a warm body pressed tight and hard against his own. He blocks out the heat and the now and the please and the more and he wills himself to focus on just one thing.

Off-white to light blue.

He doesn’t know how he knows, but something like a sense-memory flickers across Dipper’s mind, his body. 

You can have anything you want when you’re in the mindscape.

_It worked._

The lingering sense of desire and want and need is instantly replaced with a new sensation, every inch of him eager and desperate to get back to his room and check. Because if he’s right. God, if he’s right about this-

But then Dr. Cipher pulls him that little bit closer, rocks against him, and something short circuits.

It’s something like heat and electricity and a beautiful ache. If Dipper thought he was dizzy before, he can’t even think now. And that’s a problem, isn’t it? Because thinking is important. And he has to get back to his room. But Dr. Cipher is kissing him again and rolling his hips and tangling his fingers in Dipper’s hair to keep him in place and-

_I want this._

The bolt of fear that comes with that thought is enough to break through the clouding in his mind. Dipper pulls away from Dr. Cipher hard enough that the hand at his hair nearly takes some strands with it in a painful yank.

Dipper’s panting. His heart is pounding. And the look on Dr. Cipher’s face is smug, yes. But also… Devastating. Eyes half lidded, lips parted and wet and quirked into a half smirk, cheeks flushed.

_I want this._

But he _shouldn’t._ And why does he anyway? Dipper knows who he is. What he is. And still, for some reason. 

No. He needs to go.

_I need to get out of here._

He needs to get back to his room. He needs to be anywhere but here. He needs to check on the wallpaper. 

He needs to make sure that all of this, whatever this was, wasn’t for nothing.

“I’m sorry, I-” Dipper chokes out, but his words sound hoarse. Telling. He clears his throat and tries again, shifting back to remove himself from Dr. Cipher’s lap, even though his body clearly doesn’t want to. Dipper looks to the door. It seems strangely far away. “I shouldn’t, um… I have to-”

Dr. Cipher’s grip on Dipper’s thigh holds him in place, his hand tightening that much more painfully in Dipper’s hair. “And where do you think _you’re_ going?” Dr. Cipher hums, and Dipper’s attention snaps back to his face. Because, even though his voice was clearly human, there was something about it, something not quite Bill but definitely no longer his doctor. Dipper’s heart picks up speed, part in lingering hormonal confusion, part in a steadily growing panic.

Because Dipper can see both of Dr. Cipher’s eyes, and both of those very human eyes are suddenly glowing a very inhuman shade of yellow.

Dipper’s mouth is abruptly dry. He licks his lips to speak and those glowing, yellow eyes dip down again to watch. Dipper can practically feel his heartbeat in his ears, pounding like a bass drum, warning him to run.

“I asked you a question, Dipper,” Dr. Cipher all but purrs, the hand on Dipper’s thigh snaking around to settle hot and present at the small of Dipper’s back. And maybe Dr. Cipher doesn’t realize yet that his cover is blown. Maybe he’s just as distracted as Dipper is. Which was the point, right? There was supposed to be a point! But Dr. Cipher’s voice is still human, still teasing and cloying and not Bill’s. So then why? Why, even though Dipper knows he’s not human, knows he’s an evil and twisted god of chaos and torment… 

Why does part of Dipper want to just forget about his wallpaper for a little while longer and just… give in?

Unless that’s what Bill wants.

“I have to go,” Dipper croaks out, swallows around the words and says them again. Stronger this time. “Dr. Cipher. I have to go.”

“Go where?” Dr. Cipher asks, clearly not caring for the answer. “We still have thirty minutes left of your session.” The hand on Dipper’s back inches lower, Dr. Cipher’s lips returning wet and eager to Dipper’s neck. It feels too good for reason. And it shouldn’t.

_It shouldn’t._

“I-I just need to go… Check on something,” Dipper says without meaning to, a rush of panic chasing away the burn of desire in a momentary flash. Especially when Dr. Cipher stops, his whole body growing tense. And when Dr. Cipher pulls away, lifts bright yellow eyes to Dipper’s, the hunger on his face has shifted into suspicion.

“Check on what, Pine Tree?”

The name never fails to make Dipper’s heart stop, his stomach roll. Because it’s easy to forget, here. It’s easy to convince himself that he might be wrong. But that name will always mean Bill. That name will always mean Gravity Falls is real and this torturous reality is not. Even if he wakes up tomorrow filled with doubt again, right now, that name means he knows.

And he also knows that this confusing and terrifying plan will have been for nothing if he doesn’t do something quick. So Dipper says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I hate you.”

Dr. Cipher looks genuinely taken aback for a moment. But then his eyes fade back into their usual, human shade and his lips quirk into a self satisfied grin.

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he says, letting go of Dipper’s hair and leaning back. Though his other hand stays put at the small of Dipper’s back. A warning, maybe? Or a promise.

“Then why?” Dipper huffs, though he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t remove himself from Dr. Cipher’s lap. Not yet. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Doing what, Pine Tree?” Dr. Cipher hums, rubbing circle into Dipper’s back, a soothing gesture that’s just making him feel that much more on edge. 

And maybe that’s why Dipper can’t help himself. Maybe he’s just been strung too tight. Because something in those words, something in that touch, finally makes Dipper snap.

“Isn’t making me question my own reality enough?” Dipper lets his head fall forward and his eyes close, lets his teeth clench tight against each other, words gritted out and muffled. “You have to do _this_ to me too?”

Dr. Cipher chuckles, and the sound sends a shiver down Dipper’s spine. “I’m not doing anything, Pine Tree.”

Dipper jerks his head up at that, fuming. He’s grabbing at Dr. Cipher’s lab coat, tangling it in a fierce grip, before he can stop himself. “No, you are! The dreams, all those confusing thoughts out of nowhere, every time you implied that we… That in this reality we had… And why? What do you get out of it? Why bother making me feel these things at all?”

The momentary look of surprise on Dr. Cipher’s face is nothing compared to the sudden bout of laughter, thick and mocking and echoing around the room in a way that’s impossible to pretend isn’t demonic.

“Pine Tree, Pine Tree, Pine Tree,” Dr. Cipher continues through his laughter. “I’m not _making you_ feel anything.”

Dipper’s pretty sure he must be dead for as much as his heart has stopped in the last twenty minutes. Surely his suicide had been successful and he’s just in hell. This is hell.

And that’s a train of thought he shouldn’t even be pretending to go down.

“What do you mean?” Dipper can’t help but ask, as ineloquent and pathetic as it sounds. But it doesn’t make sense. If Bill isn’t making him feel this way, then-

“Sure, kid.” Dr. Cipher continues to traverse the expanse of Dipper’s back with one hand, reaching out to stroke Dipper’s cheek with the other. “I put those dreams in your head. I even teased you with the idea that we might have had a bit of a less than kosher doctor-patient relationship. At first. But those thoughts? Those feelings?” Dr. Cipher cups Dipper’s cheek, runs a thumb over his bottom lip. “That was all you, Pine Tree.”

Dipper is ripping himself out of Dr. Cipher’s grasp and scrambling off of his lap before his brain can actually catch up to what he’s doing. He nearly falls to the floor in his haste, latching onto Dr. Cipher’s desk to steady himself.

“You’re wrong,” Dipper bites out, vigorously shaking his head. “You’re wrong!” He points in Dr. Cipher’s direction, his hand trembling. “You did this to me. You… You _made me_ feel this way. It had to be you.”

“Oh really?” Dr. Cipher leans back in his chair, arms crossed and an ankle perched over one knee. The perfect picture of calm and collected. Dipper wants to punch that smirk right off his face. He also kind of still wants to kiss it too though and that’s just- No. No, this is all wrong. 

“What was all this about then, huh?” Dr. Cipher continues, smirk settling into a knowing, aggravating smile. “Why the come on then, Pine Tree?”

Dipper freezes.

_Off-white to light blue._

He’d forgotten. He’d actually forgotten.

“You keep messing with my head,” Dipper starts to say, half truths piled on top of half truths. “For a second, I… I don’t know why. I just thought that…” He knows what he’s trying to imply, but the words don’t quite come. He had a purpose. He knows that. And right now it’s the only thing keeping him together. Because the way Dr. Cipher is looking at him kind of makes him want to fall apart.

Eventually, when the awkwardness becomes too much, Dipper just mutters, “I’m going,” attempting to be matter-of-fact, but it’s impossible to hide the way his voice shakes, the way his hands clench into white-knuckled fists at his sides. He turns towards the door without giving Dr. Cipher a chance to respond. Not that it matters. 

As soon as Dipper is facing the door, Dr. Cipher is already in front of it, blocking his way out.

“Aw, come on, Pine Tree,” Dr. Cipher coos, and there it is, that inter-dimensional echo, that dissonance that is all Bill. As much as he hates such a pathetic gut reaction, it doesn’t fail to send a crippling shudder straight to Dipper’s core. “We were just getting started!”

“Move.” Dipper takes a step forward, despite the screaming voice in the back of his head warning him to back away.

“So feisty all of a sudden,” Dr. Cipher clicks his tongue against his teeth, crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s almost like you have something to hide.”

_Off-white to light blue. Off-white to light blue._

“I just want to leave,” Dipper takes another step forward, swallows his pride. He lets himself look as vulnerable as he feels. “Please.”

For the third time in what feels like as many minutes, Dr. Cipher looks at Dipper in surprise and confusion. And then, despite all of Dipper’s expectations, Dr. Cipher grabs the door handle, lets the door to his office swing wide, and steps to the side.

Dipper doesn’t know how to react at first. Surely it’s a trick? There’s no way this is over. But Dipper is also driven, not just by the overwhelming desire to get back to his room, make his first move in this new game of chess, but by the even more persistent desire to get as far away from Dr. Cipher as possible. For many reasons. So Dipper takes one step, then another, until he’s past the threshold of Dr. Cipher’s office.

Which is exactly when he feels a hand wrap tight and demanding around his upper arm, spinning him back around and pulling him close.

Dr. Cipher’s lips are on his again before he can think, before he can breathe or defend himself or reason away how wonderful this feels, how mind numbing and tingly and warming straight to his very center. In fact, before Dipper can even respond with much more than a surprised squeak and a completely involuntary but undeniably appreciative moan, Dr. Cipher is letting go, pulling away.

And dammit all, if Dipper doesn’t groan in frustrated response. A sound he instantly regrets, especially when Dr. Cipher offers up a smug grin in exchange. He doesn’t quite let go of Dipper’s arm just yet though, not without lingering, lettings his eyes wander over Dipper’s face, his neck, his chest.

“You can’t hide anything from me, Pine Tree. Not here,” Dr. Cipher says at last, eventually dropping his hand away. Dipper’s arm feels tattooed, the sensation of Dr. Cipher’s palm imprinted forever around his bicep. Dr. Cipher stands up straight, leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. “But it would be fun to watch you try.”

Dipper wants nothing more than to punch Dr. Cipher square across the jaw. He wants nothing more than to point at Dr. Cipher’s desk chair and scream, That is never happening again! He wants nothing more than to prove to Dr. Cipher that he’s wrong, that the only reason Dipper was even in here was to distract Bill enough to attempt altering the mindscape.

But that’s not completely true anymore is it? It may have started out that way, but now?

So Dipper doesn’t say anything at all, doesn’t even attempt it. Instead, he just walks away from Dr. Cipher’s office as quickly as he can, taking the offered escape despite how much it tastes like failure.

It stings, knowing that he’d lost his upper hand somewhere in all that. He’d gone in with a plan and come out with a mess of personal issues he has no desire to think about. But every intention of involuntarily over analyzing later.

He didn’t want that.

_I want this._

Dipper stops in the middle of the hallway, both hands running over his face in a tired drag. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe he should have just found another way, another distraction. But it had seemed the quickest path, the most surefire route. As much as Dipper had thought himself immune, something in him had sensed that the best distraction would be the one Bill couldn’t refuse: Dipper.

He just never expected to show his own hand in the process.

No. No, it doesn’t matter what Dr. Cipher said. Dipper chooses then and there to believe two things above all else. Firstly, and most importantly, these thoughts and these feelings? Bill put them there.

And secondly, everything he just went through will have been worth it.

Dipper lets his hands fall to his side and continues down the hallway, walking, running, and eventually sprinting back to his room. He needs to see. He needs to know.

_It was worth it. It had to have been worth it._

Because regardless of any hands shown or any confusion, regardless of Dr. Cipher’s words of warning, Dipper had followed through. He’d succeeded. He’d felt the sense-memory flicker like a dream across his subconscious. He’d watched his mind’s eye paint a picture over the existing recollection like it was no more than a faded photograph being drawn over with sharpie. He just needs to check to be sure. He just needs to be certain that the can of worms he may have just opened wasn’t done so without reason.

_It needs to have been worth it. I can’t handle it if-_

Just then, Dipper turns the corner, and already he can see it. Already, the wallpaper greets him like an ally, a friend.

Dipper slows to a halt, stumbles into the doorframe and leans heavily against it, trying very hard not to bring attention to himself. Not that it stops the insane grin from spreading across his face.

“Take that,” he whispers to himself, hugging his arms to chest. “Not so omniscient anymore, are you?”

And while he can’t deny that it’s only a small victory, Dipper revels. He takes a seat on the bed and tries not to shout for joy, instead just allowing himself a silent victory, a mental dance of triumphant glee. He forgets for a moment what it took to get here, lets himself pretend his one step forward hasn’t possibly come with two steps back. But most of all, Dipper stares at the wallpaper like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

That gaudy off-white now turned a light, robin’s egg blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three chapters left! Thank you all again, so much, for sticking with me.


	9. Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper sets the ball rolling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters left, my darlings! It's been an amazing ride, but the ride's not over yet. This last stretch is a doozy. So hold on tight.

Dipper’s always been the plan guy. Sure he’s had the journal to back him up, even leaned on it more than once when his natural abilities failed him, but at his core, Dipper’s always prided himself on one thing.

Being able to come up with a plan.

Usually he has Mabel, and usually he has a bit more to work with than a fake journal and the minimal utilities of a mental institution. But he won’t let that stop him.

Anything you want can happen in the mindscape.

And he’s already proven that, with a little bit of distraction, he can have exactly that. He just needs to decide on what that is.

What he really wants, though, is a little bit of help. Someone to talk this through with. Someone to bounce ideas off of. Someone to tell him everything is going to work out, that he’ll be okay. That he can do this. He can succeed. He just needs to keep trying. Keep thinking.

He misses Mabel.

But she’s not here. At least, not the real her. And if Bill is going to be keeping his eye on anyone, it’s going to be his family. No, he needs someone easier to crack. Someone Bill won’t be looking at as closely.

The realization hits him like a freight train.

Sure, Bill put her in here, must know of their relation, but looking back, even that manipulation was fragile at best. If he can get inside her head, hopefully by distracting Bill a little differently this time, then he’ll be one step closer to altering the mindscape permanently. Even with Bill watching. 

If he can do this, he’ll be one step closer to getting home.

_I have to find Pacifica._

But the problem is, he has no idea where to begin.

Whenever he’s found himself wandering the halls, it’s almost as if the hospital has been devoid of all patients except for him. At first, Dipper assumed it was an oversight of Bill’s; too much attention on Dipper, not enough on making his surroundings believable. But he also wouldn’t put it past Bill to do something like that simply to mess with Dipper’s head, make him feel more alone than he already is, more trapped.

So who’s to say he’ll even be able to find Pacifica unless Bill wants her to be found? In this twisted reality he’s created, does she even exist outside of the group therapy sessions?

Dipper decides to take that thought apart, focus on the aspect of it that doesn’t have the potential to make him feel even more insane than he already does. 

Group therapy. 

He’s only ever seen her at the one session, but perhaps, if he thinks on it hard enough, she’ll be at this one. It’s a long shot, but he wills himself to believe it possible. 

All he needs now is a plan. Some way to get inside her head.

An idea sparks into gradual focus. It’s a completely half baked, totally crazy idea, but after a moment, and without much more to go on, he decides it has merit. Or, at least, it’s the best he’s got. He wanted a different kind of distraction, after all. If he can get all the necessary pieces to fall into place, it might be exactly the kind of distraction he needs.

He tries not to think of how much he’s banking on chance though.

Step one: Gather the necessary equipment.

He has a surprisingly easy time acquiring the rubbing alcohol. A quick trip to the nearest supply closet, in and out while no one’s watching. Not that there’s anyone around to watch. Patients aren’t the only things Northwest Mental Health Institute seems to be lacking. It feels almost like a play; when they’re not following the script, they’re off stage, no longer a part of the performance that is Dipper’s reality.

Luckily, the set seems to be perfectly functional regardless.

Dipper tucks the small bottle of rubbing alcohol into the waistband of his pants, letting his shirt fall over it as he turns the corner. He walks the length of a few halls, pondering exactly how he’s going to come across item number two. 

As if on cue, Dipper turns another corner and finally stumbles across a person. Behind the nearest reception desk are two girls, one Dipper doesn’t recognize and one who looks like an older version of Wendy’s friend Tambry. The Tambry one seems to have just returned from a break, her phone still in front of her face. Dipper backs up, hides behind the corner a bit.

Then, for a brief instance, a thought crosses Dipper’s mind.

_I wonder if it was a smoke break. Tambry seems like someone who might smoke, right? If it was, that means she’d have a lighter, wouldn’t she?_

Dipper shakes his head at the pointless hope. He doesn’t even know where to begin finding something like that, but wishing for it isn’t going to-

He watches, completely dumbfounded, as Tambry pulls a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse, sticking them on the reception desk. 

_Was that…? Did I just make that happen?_

He decides it’s too soon to tell, too soon to be so optimistic. But he also can’t deny the coincidence. He wanted it and it happened. Just like that.

“Crap,” Tambry sighs, still going through her purse. “I must have left my keys outside. I’ll be right back.” The other girl nods and Tambry leaves, the cigarettes and lighter still sitting completely out in the open. And completely within Dipper’s reach. He just needs to time it right.

Dipper works out a plausible script of his own. Just because Bill is directing this little production doesn’t mean Dipper can’t improv a little, sway the final act in his favor.

The girl still at reception notices his approach almost instantly, smiling the sort of fake, over the top smile one would expect of a Mental Institute’s staff.

“How can I help you, Dipper?” The girl says, voice sugary sweet to match. 

Dipper tries not to cringe, tries to be polite and shy and in no way suspicious as he says, “I just wanted to see if my sister was coming this Tuesday.” He knows she is. _Every Tuesday since he’d been admitted_ , is what Wendy had said. But he also knows that, if she were to check the computer which most likely holds the visitor’s schedule, she would have to turn her back on Dipper to do so.

“I don’t see why she wouldn’t be, but I can certainly check,” the girl says. And to solidify the ruse, Dipper chuckles a bit at himself, the sound strained, and only half fake.

“I just… Miss her, that’s all.”

Which is as true at is painful.

The receptionist nods, her smile settling into something a bit more believable, something softer and maybe a little pitying. “I’ll check, hun. No worries.”

And the moment she turns around, Dipper grabs the lighter off of Tambry’s pack of cigarettes and walks away.

 

xxx

 

Step two: Timing.

For once, Dipper’s the first one in the group therapy session, already seated, already waiting for everyone else to arrive. He watches as face after face of people he knows and doesn’t know file in and take a seat around the circle. Each one that isn’t Pacifica sets his nerves even more on edge. Until eventually, the staff member in charge of leading the group arrives, closing the door behind her, and Dipper feels his heart sink.

“Welcome back, everyone,” she says, same smile as always, plastered to her face like it’s been stapled there by force. “Does anyone have anything new they want to start off with today?”

A quiet murmur is all she gets in response, also same as always. Dipper doesn’t add to it. He’s too busy watching the door, because if Pacifica doesn’t walk through it, his whole plan is ruined. He’s too busy silently hoping that his gamble hasn’t left him broke and alone and back where he started.

“Dipper?” The session leader says, her inflection implying that it’s not the first time she’s tried to get his attention. He turns towards her.

“What?” He offers, probably harsher than he intended, but he’s a little preoccupied. The woman’s mouth twitches, smile faltering for an instant before growing into something painfully cheerier.

“I was asking about Gravity Falls,” she says, and the way she’s looking at him stirs something uncomfortable and sour in the pit of his stomach. “Are you ready to tell us about it yet?”

Dipper leans back in his chair, keeps his face blank, his heart steady. She’s only here to test him, to push his buttons. Another of Bill’s attempts at cracking him open, reading and rewiring him from the inside out. And yet, even though he knows that, he can’t help clamming up, getting defensive.

“Nope,” he sniffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Pacifica should be here. She needs to be here. He can’t move forward without her. He’s not sure how else he can. “Nothing to talk about, really.”

_Please. Please show up._

The group therapy leader opens her mouth to speak, clearly ready to verbally attack, but at Dipper’s mental plea, much like before, the door at the back of the room clicks open.

Dipper doesn’t even need to look in its direction to know it’s her. 

Be it wishful thinking or fate or something much more in his control than he wants to believe in just yet, Dipper lets the wash of momentary relief stabilize him.

As anxious as her late arrival had made him, Dipper can’t deny the opportunity Pacifica’s solitary entrance provides. The whole circle turns in her direction, the session leader smiles more naturally, her entire focus on Pacifica’s slow, calculated approach. Dipper takes that moment to ease out of his seat, walking to the table in the corner with the cookies he never usually eats. No one notices.

“Welcome back, my dear,” he hears the session leader say. Dipper puts a cookie on a plate. “Two sessions in a row. That’s progress!”

“I don’t really know why I’m here,” Pacifica replies, and Dipper glances over his shoulder just in time to watch her take a seat. All eyes are still on her. Dipper balances the plate and single cookie in one hand, feeling for the bottle of rubbing alcohol still pressed to his side with the other. 

“Just being willing to sit here with us is a step in the right direction, Paz,” the session leader coos, and Dipper quickly, quietly uses that moment to slip away into her back office.

He doesn’t close the door. Too much noise. But he does make it a point to keep himself shielded from view. This shouldn’t take long, but he needs long enough to do one thing first. Careful not to draw attention to himself, Dipper grabs a pen and the first blank scrap of paper he finds from the desk. In a handwriting that still feels strange and unfamiliar, he jots down the first thing that pops into his head. 

He momentarily pockets the paper, sets the pen to the side, and pulls out the rubbing alcohol.

The hesitation is brief, but it’s there. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, he doesn’t want to break the rules, he doesn’t want to cause any sort of problems. But he also needs a distraction, he also needs his moment with Pacifica, he also needs to get the fuck out of here.

So Dipper pushes that hesitance aside, twists the cap off the rubbing alcohol, and pours the lot of it over the session leader’s desk. Then, before he can change his mind, he grabs Tambry’s lighter out of his pocket and flicks it to life.

Lighter’s aren’t like matches. He can’t just ignite it, drop it, and walk away. So Dipper wills himself to believe it’ll catch quick enough for effect but slow enough that when he touches the flame to the alcohol, it won’t instantly flair up and attack him. His hand is still shaking a little when he reaches forward, inches the flame into contact.

The result is instant, and Dipper pulls away as quickly as he can, the heat stretching up to lick his skin but not wound him.

Files and printer paper begin to shrivel and smoke. A notebook warps as the metal spirals react to the heat. From a mug on the corner of the desk, a pen twitches and explodes with a pop, the other pens and pencils inside catching fire instantly. Dipper takes a step back, momentarily stunned by how quickly the damage is spreading, and collides with another person. 

He knows it’s the session leader even before she grabs his arm to turn him around, shouting, “What the hell are you doing?” She yanks him out of her office and back into the room, the smoke already escaping, following behind him. It’s crawling along the ceiling, getting thicker by the minute. The rest of the group has gotten to their feet, watching the session leader hurriedly grab bottles of water from the snack table.

“Everybody out!” She shouts, though nobody moves, everyone a bit too preoccupied by the way the fire has begun to grow, flickering bright and orange from inside the office. “Now!” She shouts again, twisting the top off of one of the bottles and disappearing back into the office.

Most of the group listens this time, hurrying out of the room. Some rush into the office to help, grabbing bottles of water on their way. Dipper looks around for Pacifica and catches a glimpse of her tailing after the group who’s chosen to leave. The smoke is getting thick enough that when Dipper tries to call out her name it trails off in a steady stream of scratchy coughs. He rushes towards her, grabbing her wrist instead.

Pacifica turns around, surprised at first, and then annoyed, yanking her hand out of his grasp. “What the hell are you doing, Dipper?” She asks hotly, words punctuated with a cough of her own.

“Just wait a second,” Dipper says, already digging into his pocket for the scrap of paper.

“What? No!” Pacifica huffs, covering her mouth as the smoke dips lower, enveloping nearly every inch of the room. “You’re insane and I’m leaving before I die of smoke inhalation.”

She turns to do just that, and Dipper follows on her heels, inhaling deep, smoke-free breaths the moment they’re back in the hallway. “I know it doesn’t make sense yet, but I need you to do something for me,” he says to her back as she continues to walk away.

“Fat chance,” She sniffs, not even bothering to look at him.

“Pacifica, just take this, please!” He pulls the paper out of his pocket and holds it out in her direction. And maybe it’s the desperation in his voice, or maybe she’s just annoyed enough to do whatever it takes to get him to leave her alone, but she stops, turns around. She glances at the piece of paper and raises an eyebrow.

“What? Why?”

“Just…” he runs a hand over his face, shaking the paper with a bit more vigor than probably looks sane. But he suddenly gets the feeling that he’s running out of time. “Just take it. I promise, I’ll-”

“Somebody grab the fire extinguisher!” The session leader’s voice calls out from back inside the room. Dipper and Pacifica both glance in its direction.

“I can explain later,” Dipper sighs, looking back at Pacifica with as much plea in his eyes that he can manage. “For right now, before she comes to take me to solitary confinement or something, just… Take it.”

Pacifica looks from Dipper to the paper and back, face stern. And then, with a roll of her eyes, she snatches the paper out of his hand. “You’re not making any sense anymore, Dipper.” She says. “And it’s kind of terrifying.”

Dipper can’t help but chuckle at that. He can only imagine what she must think. That is, if her thoughts are even her own. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She raises an eyebrow at that too, but pockets the slip of paper regardless, already turning away. “I don’t care.” As she leaves, she calls over her shoulder, “Next time you choose to be a pyromaniac, do it way the hell away from me, got it?”

“Got it,” Dipper replies, though she’s already too far away to hear. 

Dipper can hear the remaining chaos from inside the room, the fire seemingly put out, the session leader instructing the ones who stayed behind to crack the windows. Her voice is getting closer as she talks, coming to take Dipper to his punishment, most likely. He could probably run, but where to? And what would the point be? So he stays. Waits.

Hopes.

He hopes he did enough. He hopes the fire was distracting enough. He hopes the intention he attached to the slip of paper is strong enough. 

He needs it to be enough, because if it isn’t, he’s not quite sure where he’ll go from here. He’s banking everything on this, he realizes. Dipper closes his eyes, leans against the wall. Maybe he could have done things differently? Maybe there was an easier way? 

No. There’s no point. What’s done is done. And it’ll work. It has to.

“Oh good,” the session leader’s voice appears at Dipper’s side. He opens his eyes and glances at her, not surprised to see her usual smile no longer in place. “You stuck around for the consequences. How generous of you.” Her arms are crossed over her chest, her face streaked with soot and her clothes still smoking a bit.

“Figured it was the right thing to do,” Dipper says before he can stop himself. The session leader’s frown deepens.

“You have a lot to answer for, Dipper.”

Dipper sighs. “Obviously.”

“We’ll let Dr. Cipher figure out what to do with you.”

Dipper groans, feels his stomach drop out from underneath him. “Obviously.”

As the session leader parades him down the hall to Dr. Cipher’s office, Dipper focuses every ounce of his intention on the memory of that piece of paper. He wills whatever power he has over the mindscape to solidify, alter, correct. He wills Pacifica’s mind to bend to his hope, his wish. He wills himself to believe that he has control, that his slip of paper can do what he needs it to. That it’s just a talisman, there to help him grow and train and become someone with enough power to kick Bill’s ass.

But more than anything, he thinks of Pacifica and wills the word he scrawled on that talisman to come true.

_Remember._

 

xxx

 

Dr. Cipher isn’t in his office when the session leader drops him off. Dipper’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He chooses to believe it’s the distraction working in Dipper’s favor; even forced optimism is better than nothing.

Dipper leans against the wall next to Dr. Cipher’s door. He’s not quite sure what his next move will be. It’s highly unlikely they’ll let him back into another group therapy session after that, and he has no idea how to go about contacting Pacifica otherwise so-

“Hey,” Pacifica’s voice rips him out of his train of thought with a jolt of surprise. Dipper turns to look at her, stunned once again at the coincidence.

If it _is_ coincidence.

“Um… Hey?” Dipper clears his throat, pushing himself away from the wall and standing a bit straighter. For a moment, neither of them say anything, the silence stretching, long and awkward and thick with tension. Eventually, Dipper can’t take it anymore. “So, did you-?”

“I read it,” Pacifica finishes for him, pulling the paper out of her pocket and opening it up, holding it out in his direction. “What the hell is this supposed to mean?”

Dipper feels his heart plummet into his stomach. No, no, no, no, no. This… This was supposed to work! He put everything he had into it. If she doesn’t remember, then he-

“Look, Dipper,” Pacifica sighs, folding the paper up and shoving it back into her pocket. “I don’t know why it was so important to you that I have this. Or why you thought it was a good idea to light a desk on fire, but whatever you think you’re doing, you should probably stop. Maybe you should talk to Dr. Cipher, or-”

A rush of something like panic and frustration and a fierce, desperate determination rushes through him. Before he can stop himself, Dipper reaches out and grabs Pacifica by the shoulders. Her eyes go wide, a flicker of her own panic catching Dipper’s attention. He flinches, but he doesn’t let her go.

“I know I sound crazy,” Dipper sighs, lets his head hang a bit, not quite able to look her in the eye. “But I just… I needed you to remember. I _still_ need you to remember. I just don’t-”

“Remember what, Dipper?” Pacifica groans, her own frustration overcoming her fear of what’s appearing to be his increasing instability. 

He looks up, words stringing together in his haste to get them out. “The lumberjack ghosts and everyone turning into wood and the curse on your family, the prophesy, how you saved everyone’s lives and-”

“Oh god, that again?” Pacifica groans, and Dipper feels his heart sink further, the spark of hope at the center of his chest flickering out with a painful snap. “I already told you, Dipper.”

Dipper lets his hands fall away from her shoulders, lets them dangle at his sides, heavy and numb, just like the rest of him. “I know. You don’t-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dipper flinches. “Right. Sorry, I’ll-” But then, something in her tone of voice registers. He glances at her, raises an eyebrow of his own. “Wait. You don’t want to talk about it in general or because…?”

Pacifica frowns, crosses her arms over her chest. “Seriously? You’re going to ignore the fact that I just said I don’t want to talk about it. Especially with you.”

Dipper feels something akin to optimism bubbling back to life just behind his ribcage. “I get that, I get that. Sorry for prying. But why exactly don’t you want to talk about it?”

Pacifica stares at him for a moment, stunned, before whispering, “Unbelievable,” and turning away.

“Wait, Pacifica! I’m sorry!” Dipper panics, reaching out in her direction but pulling his hand back at the last second. “I just need to know if you-”

“You want to know why I don’t like talking about it?” Pacifica huffs, whirling back around on him. Dipper stumbles back in surprise, colliding with the wall. “Because it’s the moment that ruined my life! If I’m not dreaming about bleeding taxidermy heads, then I’m reliving the moment my parents checked me into this god awful place in an attempt to pretend it never happened. And then _you’re_ here to remind me that even though I made the right decision and saved _everyone_ , I still got shafted in the end. So, no. I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to think about it, and why the fuck are you smiling at me? Is this some sort of joke to you?”

She’s literally fuming, and all Dipper can do is grin. He wants to laugh or cry or probably both and his chest hurts and his whole body is vibrating with a sudden rush of adrenaline and suddenly, Pacifica is in his arms, blond hair ticking his face.

“Thank god,” Dipper laughs. “Oh thank god.”

“What the hell are you-? Let go of me!” She struggles against him, and Dipper lets go, but not before leaning in and kissing her full on the mouth.

He’s not quite sure what possessed him. The excitement, the relief? All he knows, is that one second he’s not kissing Pacifica and the next he is, every ounce of that relief coursing through him. She’s frozen against him at first, but after a second, to both their surprise, she melts into the kiss, hand reaching up as if by it’s own accord to rest hesitantly against Dipper’s cheek.

Dipper snaps back to himself at the touch, pulling away in shock. Pacifica blinks a few times as if dazed, then seems to catch up to herself too, taking two very large steps back, fingers over her lips.

“You kissed me,” she says from behind her hand, words slightly muffled.

“I, um…” Dipper clears his throat. “Sorry about that. I don’t really know, uh… It just sorta… Happened.”

“You kissed me,” Pacifica says again, lets her hand drop, and if Dipper didn’t know better, he’d say she was blushing. Pacifica clears her throat and looks away. “Can I, uh… Can I have my family-”

“Pay me to pretend that never happened?” Dipper finishes for her, a memory from another reality, and Pacifica looks back at him in disbelief. Dipper can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. You _would_ say that. Wouldn’t you. Even here.”

Pacifica clears her throat, crosses her arms again, attempting aloofness but coming across more slightly flustered. “If you’re done making me relive the worst day of my life, can I go?”

Dipper smirks, nodding. Pacifica nods back, turns on her heel, and begins making her way down the hallway.

“Thank you,” Dipper calls after her. She pauses, but doesn’t turn around, eventually continuing around the corner and out of sight.

Dipper watches that corner for a few more moments after she’s gone. 

_She remembers._

He made her remember. He took Bill’s version of her and rewrote it. He altered not only the physical mindscape, but the intangible as well. Dipper feels like running a marathon or taking down a hoard of zombies or singing _Disco Girl_ at the top of his lungs. He feels like anything is possible.

Because from this moment on, as far as he’s concerned, it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next friday! Brace yourselves for that one. It fucked me up. Cheers!


	10. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have it, folks. The penultimate chapter. Shit goes down. You've been warned. I changed the tags again, so if you feel the need to prepare yourself, just look up before scrolling onward.
> 
> Godspeed.

Dr. Cipher shows up a few minutes after Pacifica leaves. Dipper tries not to be concerned as to why he’d be gone for so long, what he could possibly have been doing. But honestly, Dipper can’t seem to feel too concerned about anything right now. Not when he’s still riding the high of his most recent success. And especially not when that extra time in the hall has given him the perfect opportunity to come up with the next part of his plan.

So when Dr. Cipher unlocks his office door and opens it wide, Dipper walks in without question, taking a seat in front of Dr. Cipher’s desk as though he belongs there.

Dr. Cipher follows suit, sitting down, resting his chin in his hands. He latches on to Dipper’s gaze with an intimidating focus. Dipper shudders a bit underneath it, but holds tight to his newfound resolve. And when Dr. Cipher ends up being the one to break the silence, Dipper takes that as another, slightly smaller success.

“Should I be worried about you lighting my desk on fire too?” He asks. Dipper shrugs. “And what exactly were you trying to achieve?” Dipper shrugs again. Dr. Cipher sighs, leaning back in his chair. After a few moments, his shoulders begin to shake, a soft laugh, a whisper of sound, escaping into the silence of the office. “I never realized how much of a burden you were going to be.”

Dipper raises an eyebrow at that. “It took you ten years to figure that out?”

Dr. Ci- _No. I’m done with this._ Bill blinks once, narrows his eyes as if realizing his mistake. Dipper just stares him down, keeps his face blank. Not that it matters. Both of their masks have been slipping for a while now.

“What are you trying to prove, Dipper?” Bill asks, voice low. He’s still putting on the façade, still play-acting. As if he has anything left worth pretending. Part of Dipper may still have his doubts, but it grows smaller and smaller by the minute.

“The group therapy session was getting tedious,” Dipper shrugs. “Figured the only method of escape would be to smoke us out.”

“I’m not talking about the desk,” Bill rolls his eyes, not even bothering to hide his presumably very real annoyance. “Although,” He pauses, flashes Dipper a grin. His next words are dripping with entendre at a level bordering on the indecent, so much so that Dipper has no ability to combat the way his face burns, his pulse skyrockets. “Don’t think you’re getting out of that without some sort of punishment.”

“I’ll walk out of here right now,” Dipper tries to deadpan, tries to sound serious, but it’s hard when his stomach is flip flopping and his heart is tapping out a painful rhythm against his ribcage.

Bill just laughs, tapping out a rhythm of his own along the polished mahogany of his desk. Dipper tries not to notice how both rhythms are unnervingly in sync. “That’s cute. Like you honestly think you can.”

“I’m surprised you’re still employed as a doctor, saying shit like that,” Dipper sniffs, and he knows he’s baiting the shark, but at this point, there’s enough chum in the water without him. He might as well see how thick the bars of his cage really are.

 

“You’d be surprised what a medical board is willing to overlook,” Bill says without skipping a beat.

_Enough of this._

Dipper crosses his arms over his chest. “Can I make a phone call?” He asks, not quite looking at Bill anymore, afraid that if he does, he’ll give away his next move. But even without looking, he can practically hear the surprise at the non sequitur, can practically see the curiosity that’s probably written all over Bill’s face.

“You want to… make a phone call,” Bill parrots, and Dipper can’t help but exhale a quick breath of annoyance through his nose. There’s only one more thing he needs to check, one more piece of control he needs to test out before he can run the gambit to the end. And in order to do that-

“Yes,” Dipper glances, only briefly, in Bill’s direction. As expected, the man is looking at him with an eyebrow raised and notable suspicion in his eyes. That doesn’t necessarily mean a lack of amusement though, apparently. Dipper overlooks that part. “There’s someone I need to call.”

Bill stares at him for long enough that Dipper begins to assume he’s being ignored. It would be harder, he figures, to find another way if Bill says no. He could probably happen across a phone, use part control and part coincidence to run into a PA while she’s on her cell. But that’s not all he needs right now.

More than that, he needs to be able to see Bill’s face.

“Sure, Dipper,” Bill says suddenly, pulling Dipper out of his mental recalibration. Bill is smiling, reaching across his desk to push the office phone in Dipper’s direction. “Be my guest.”

Dipper can’t help but hesitate; it feels too easy, like he missed the moment Bill caught on. But he stretches an arm out for it regardless. No turning back now.

Except, when his hand settles atop the receiver, Bill covers it with his own, pinning Dipper in place.

Dipper hates how his heart stutters, how his focus instantly zeros in on the warmth of that hand, the weight and the presence of it. He tries to pull away on instinct, but Bill is relentless.

“Speaker, if you please.” Bill grins, squeezing Dipper’s hand once before letting go and leaning back, watching.

Dipper swallows, throat thick and dry. He tires not to think about how cold his hand feels now, focusing instead on activating the speaker-phone, on the nine digit number he plugs in, steady jabs at the buttons, all under Bill’s watchful gaze.

The phone starts ringing almost immediately, a crackly sound over the phone’s speaker. It rings once, twice, three times. By the fourth, Dipper feels the beginnings of panic start to bloom just below his ribcage, a cold fear spreading across the nape of his neck. He didn’t think about what he’d do if no one answered. Or worse, if there was no one on the other end to pick up the call.

But no. If Pacifica can exist outside of Bill’s predetermined design, then so can Grunkle Stan.

At that thought, halfway through the seventh ring, the line clicks open, a gruff, all too familiar voice saying, “Mystery Shack. Stan Pines speaking.”

In the periphery, Dipper sees Bill’s eyebrows raise a fraction, though what for, he can’t quite say. Maybe Bill was expecting him to call someone else. Maybe Bill was expecting no one to pick up. Maybe Bill was expecting Dipper to give up all together once he knew he had an audience.

_Well? Tough shit._

“Hey, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper says, a bit louder than necessary. He winces, backs off some. “It’s me.”

“Dipper?” Grunkle Stan’s voice softens a bit, though his surprise at the phone call is obvious. “Everything okay, kid? You don’t normally call me… ever.”

“I know,” Dipper clears his throat, tries to sound a bit more casual, and a lot less tense than he actually feels. “I know, sorry. I just wanted to ask you something.”

Dipper glances over at Bill, and as expected, the level of attention Bill is paying him is almost tangible, a focus that’s thick and eager and waiting for something. Though whether it’s for Dipper to fail or succeed, who knows.

Dipper takes a breath before continuing. Moment of truth, really. If he can do this, the ball starts rolling, the clock starts counting down.

_And I can. I can do this, Bill. Even with you watching._

“I heard you were coming to visit on Tuesday this week,” Dipper starts off small, wills his control to travel from mouth to phone to this reality’s fabrication of his Grunkle. Dipper chooses not to look at Bill as he does so, keeps his eyes glued on a single point on the wall, concentrating. “I just wanted to check to make sure that was still true.”

The amount of time between his question and Stan’s answer is agony. Dipper knows there was no mention of a Tuesday visit. Dipper knows he’s rewriting the dialogue, waiting for the scene to respond in kind. But the longer it takes for Grunkle Stan to reply, the more it feels like Bill is catching on too. So Dipper panics, opens his mouth to backpedal.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grunkle Stan says before he can. “Mabel has the day off from school, so we were gonna drive over together. Why?”

Dipper almost doesn’t reply, the rush of relief almost too much to go on with the ruse. Dipper smiles to himself though, can’t help it. And even though he’s still not quite looking at Bill, the tension in the room has tripled. Bill might not have caught on, per say; at least Dipper hopes not. But he’d be stupid to think nothing was going on at this point.

“I was just hoping,” Dipper goes on after a moment. Now for the slightly harder part. “Mabel told me that Ford was back from Portland.”

Not even close to true. And considering the whole contradiction still surrounding Ford’s life and death, definitely impossible for Bill not to miss. If Bill has any sort of power left, this would be the sort of thing Bill would be able to nip in the bud right here and now.

“Think you might be able to convince him to come with you?” Dipper asks, tacks on a soft, “I miss him,” for good measure.

And it suddenly doesn’t matter what sort of power Bill has. Dipper’s getting stronger by the second. He can feel it.

Especially when Grunkle Stan says, “No problem, kid. I’m sure Poindexter would love to see ya. Hell, I’ll drag his ass there if I have to.”

Dipper can’t help the near-manic grin worming its way onto his face, knows Bill is watching and analyzing and probably picking apart Dipper’s plan from the inside out as he speaks. But it’s worth it to know he can do this. It’s worth it to know just how far this control of his can spread. Even under the watchful eye of his supposedly omniscient captor.

“Thanks, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper nods to himself. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“See you then, kid.”

The line clicks out leaving a dial tone in its place. It’s Bill who reaches over to silence it.

“Thanks, Dr. Cipher,” Dipper says, still grinning. He can’t help it. He hasn’t felt this optimistic, this hopeful in months. “I just miss my family, I guess. It’s nice to know I’ll get to see them all together in a few days.”

“I’m sure it is,” Bill tilts his head, looking at Dipper with an expression he’s never seen on the good doctor’s face before. Something like… pride? No. Excitement? Maybe. Bill pulls his hand away from the phone and settles back in his chair, just staring, eyes traveling over Dipper’s face, his body. It makes Dipper’s skin crawl.

When the tension continues to stretch onward with no sign of respite, Dipper gets to his feet, the scrape of his chair on the hardwood flooring shattering the silence with a satisfying shriek. “I appreciate you letting me use your phone,” he says. “But if we’re done here, I should probably go back to my room.” He turns to leave. Part of him expects to see Bill already standing at the door again, but even as Dipper starts walking away, Bill stays at his back, stays silent.

Until, “You know, I was wondering what might have been fucking up my backstory on Sixer.” Dipper pauses, something akin to static electricity prickling beneath his skin. “At first I figured it was a fluke, that I’d overlooked something.” As Bill goes on, Dipper can’t help but glance over his shoulder to watch. Bill is smiling, strangely relaxed looking for the topic of conversation. “But it looks like you just love your Great Uncle Fordsy a little too much. Your puny human brain refused to believe in a world where he wasn’t alive and kicking.” Bill laughs, a twisted, lurching sound that echoes too loudly in the confinement of the office. “It’s adorable.”

Dipper turns back to face Bill more completely, walks around his chair and up to Bill’s desk.

_Schrödinger’s Ford._

It’s as logical as it is unbelievable. Dipper’s mind has been altering the mindscape from the very beginning? If that isn’t motivating, nothing is. And it’s that sharp burst of confidence that makes Dipper’s next decision for him.

Dipper places his hands on Bill’s desk, staring him down, even as Bill slowly begins to get to his feet. His words are strong and clear as he asks, “So we’re done then?”

For a second, there’s nothing. No answer, no movement. Then Bill opens his mouth to speak and every word drips with black paint, covering the room in splashes of Rorschach tests and inksplots. Syllables fly past his lips, flapping their wings like bats, a rush of tangible sound that seems to batter Dipper senseless.

“Yeah, Pine Tree. We’re done.”

Dipper scrambles backwards, knocking over the chair in his haste. He trips over it instantly, hits the ground hard, his elbow colliding with the leg of the chair in white bursts of pain. He spins himself around, tries to crawl through it to the exit, but it doesn’t exist anymore, a cardboard cutout of the office door standing in its place. Dipper watches in horror as it slowly begins to rip itself in half, little pieces of cardboard falling around him like snow.

He… may have made a mistake.

Dipper gets back to his feet quick as he can, whirling to face Bill, locking him in his sights. It’s the only thing he can do to keep from panicking, to keep from succumbing to the feeling of trapped, trapped, trapped.

“That’s it?” Dipper swallows, forces himself to stand a bit taller, look a bit more confident then he feels. He has the upper hand here. He still has the upper hand. Doesn’t he? “No more pretending this is real? No more messing with my head?”

“Now, now, Pine Tree,” Bill laughs, his body pulling and stretching, growing to at least a good ten feet until he’s towering, looming. He leans down, bent ninety degrees at the waist. Dipper can feel the hot, sickly sweet pulse of Bill’s breath against his face. “I didn’t say that.”

The splashes of black have completely enveloped the walls, the ceiling. Dipper shifts onto the balls of his feet just so he can feel the floor beneath him, remind himself that he’s not currently floating in a dark and endless abyss.

“But why?” Dipper practically screams, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “What’s the point? Why are you doing all this?”

“Why?” Bill hums, even goes so far as to place one clawed finger to his chin in a mockery of genuine thought. Then he smiles, teeth sharp and elongated, lips dragging literally from ear to ear. “Because it’s fun!”

Dipper doesn’t know what emotion runs strongest at that: fear, misery, desperation. Eventually, Dipper settles on ruthless, all consuming rage. He doesn’t even think, doesn’t even consider how pointless the act may be. Dipper charges at Bill’s twisted form with an angry shout, aiming to tackle to pummel to maim. If he can inflict even a modicum of pain, it will have been worth it.

Except, where Dipper expects to feel the impact of his lanky, eighteen year old frame colliding with the monstrosity of Bill’s demonic body, instead there is only the sensation of breaking through, of his obstacle falling apart. A sensation followed instantly by the familiar scratch and tickle of something crawling along his skin.

Dipper looks down at himself, hands already frantically attempting to swat at arms, chest, shoulders, anywhere he feels the telltale movement of whatever creatures have apparently latched onto him. Eight legs slowly creep around his elbow and into his line of sight.

_Spiders…_

Dipper’s motions grow that much more frantic, his whole body flailing in attempts to wipe them away. He looks behind him to where Bill once stood. In his place is the remainder of the spiders, their pile slowly spreading across the floor. And in Dipper’s direction.

Dipper backs up, still running his hands through his hair, over his legs, down his arms. It’s this desperate motivation that distracts him from the abrupt slope in the floor, Dipper only noticing once his foot has given way beneath it, his momentum dragging him down and then backwards.

He hits the ground with a splash.

Dipper sinks instantly. It’s too thick to be water, too thick to properly swim to the surface in. He kicks his legs as hard as he can, drags his arms through the resistance until his limbs are burning and his lungs feel ready to collapse. When he ultimately has to suck in a breath, it’s like inhaling maple syrup. Dipper thinks he might be able to taste it too.

Except, before he gets a chance to properly acknowledge the possibility of drowning in a giant pool of Canada’s finest, his feet touch ground, the liquid around him draining. Even the syrup already in his lungs feels like it’s being drawn out, ripped forcefully from his chest to slither up his throat, choking him the whole way through.

Though he has no recollection of them closing, Dipper’s eyes open just in time to see Bill, back to his triangular visage, a sky scraper in size and broken into three rotating portions, reaching towards Dipper’s face. No. Away from his face. And out of his mouth. Dipper gags as the last of the liquid leaves his lungs, no longer a liquid but the slowly re-solidifying finger at the end of one of Bill’s hands. 

Dipper tries to get to his feet, still gagging, throat raw, but the ground shifts underneath him. He loses his balance, scrambling for support, but the world around him continues to shift, to raise, and it takes far, far too long for Dipper to realize why.

He’s not on the ground at all. Bill has him balanced in one of his hands, cradling him in his palm like a pet mouse.

As if on cue, Bill’s giant eye zeros in on him, coming close enough that Dipper can’t help but think he knows what it feels like now to be beneath a microscope, pinned to a slide for some scientist to examine.

“I’m just kidding, Pine Tree!” Bill’s voice echoes with an obscene amount of reverb, Dipper’s whole body vibrating with the abrasiveness of it. He doesn’t even know what Bill’s kidding about anymore. Dipper covers his ears as Bill continues. “Of course I have a reason for all of this!”

“What then?” Dipper shouts back, gritting his teeth as Bill laughs in response, a cackle that seems to come from every angle, bouncing in and out of audible focus.

“Come on, kid,” Bill continues to chuckle, tilting his hand little by little. Dipper can feel his purchase slipping. “Surely you must have figured it out by now.” Dipper doesn’t respond, too busy trying to keep his feet from sliding out from under him. 

Bill’s form has begun to shift again, his triangular body morphing back into that of a human’s, Dr. Cipher’s face forming in the place of Bill’s giant eye. Only, Bill maintains the three separate portions to himself, each still slowly spinning as if on their own axis. Blood and viscera dribble between each section, the drip, splash, drip of it loud and nauseating and grotesque.

“You’re reeeeally disappointing me right now, Pine Tree,” Bill groans.

Without preamble, he flips his hand over completely and Dipper falls.

Dipper’s not really surprised that the fall lasts an uncomfortably long amount of time, long enough that he stops screaming after a while. What does surprise him is when the fall ultimately comes to an abrupt halt by way of Dipper suddenly being dropped into the chair across from Dr. Cipher’s desk.

Bill is already there, back to his doctor façade and leaning against the bookshelf in the corner. Dipper gets unsteadily to his feet, gripping the chair for support. “Just tell me.” He tries to be stern, but even he can hear the slight edge of a plea in his voice.

Bill rolls his eyes. “What else could I possibly want, Pine Tree? Think about it.”

Dipper shakes his head. He’s already tired of this, already mentally exhausted. “Revenge?”

Bill laughs again, and even though it’s a normal, human laugh this time, it still sets Dipper’s nerves on edge. “Well _obviously_ ,” He says. “And at first that was motivation numero uno.” Bill pulls himself away from the bookshelf and walks right into Dipper’s personal space. He reaches out to place a hand on the crown of Dipper’s head, pushing down, forcing Dipper back into his seat. “But messing with your head was so satisfying, and so easy, I couldn’t help but start imagining a plan b.”

“Plan b,” Dipper parrots, tries to move his head out from underneath Bill’s grasp, but Bill’s hand stays firm, fingers tangling in and out of Dipper’s hair. “I don’t-” But then suddenly he does. Suddenly only one other possibility makes sense. Dipper frowns. “A vessel? All of this… Just so you can possess someone again?”

Bill takes a step back, leaning down so his face still hovers at Dipper’s level. He holds up a fist, raising a finger at a time as he elaborates. “A few things wrong with that assumption, Pine Tree. One: I don’t want just any run of the mill vessel. I want _you_. Two: This isn’t about possession. This is about cohabitation. Know why?” Bill holds up three fingers, so close to Dipper’s face it looks like six. “Because I’m not looking for temporary this time. Not by a long shot. See, this go around, Pine Tree? I’m looking for permanence.”

Bill finally backs away and Dipper feels a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding leave his lungs in a painful rush. He has so many questions, all of them too important to ask first. Ultimately, he settles for the one that hurts the most.

“But why me?” Dipper asks, hates how fragile he sounds. How vulnerable. But he needs to know. After all this torture, all this time, all this playing pretend, why him? “What did I possibly do to deserve all this?” Dipper gestures weakly at the reality still tilting off-kilter around him.

With a soft hum, Bill leans back against his desk, amusement plain on his frustratingly still human face. “You don’t just _buy_ something before you have the chance to try it on first, do you?” Dipper blinks, memories of sock puppets and forks in his arms and human soda flashing behind his eyes. Something very similar to a boiling fury begins to bubble over in the pit of Dipper’s stomach. If Bill notices, he doesn’t say, waving a hand dismissively as he adds, “You were just a good fit.”

Heart pounding in a mix of fear and rage, fingers digging ruthlessly into the seat of his chair, Dipper looks Bill square in the face. Through gritted teeth, he says, “None of that matters if I don’t say yes.” Bill keeps smirking, and the sight is so infuriating that Dipper has to look away for a moment, shake his head. “I know the way this works, Bill. And you’re not as powerful as you pretend to be.” When Dipper forces his gaze back, he makes sure their eyes are locked as he adds, “You need me to say yes if you want me to be your vessel again. And that’s never going to happen.”

This time, when Bill approaches, edges his way back into the bubble of Dipper’s personal space, it feels different. Heavier. “Not yet, maybe. But you will.” Slowly, and with the obvious weight of purpose, Bill places a hand on the back of Dipper’s chair, arm close enough to occasionally brush Dipper’s neck. “It probably would have been easier on you,” he says, voice a low rumble of sound. “If I’d just asked the night that you broke.”

_Twenty-four pills. A night that somehow did and didn’t happen. “Nice try, Pine Tree. But this is only fun if you’re alive.”_

“But then I thought, you know what would be _more_ fun?” Bill practically giggles. He leans in close enough that Dipper can feel the ghost of lips against his own, each movement around Bill’s words a whisper of promise. “If you said yes _because you wanted it_.”

Dipper’s world tilts suddenly, his chair falling backwards with one hard push from Bill’s hand.

The length of the fall doesn’t make sense, traveling much farther than the distance between him and the floor. But what makes even less sense is that the fall ends with a pillowed thud in a very familiar bed.

The sensations envelope him at once. The smell of wood and dust and humidity, the sounds of nature and the creak of old furniture. Dipper can’t move for a second, his heart pounding as his eyes rake over the wooden banisters that line the attic ceiling.

_I’m back. I’m back. I’m back._

But no. This can’t be real. Bill would never-

But it _feels_ real. Every inch of him is screaming _yes, this is right, this is home, this is the Shack, I know it is._

And when Dipper finally wills himself to sit up, to throw his feet over the edge of the bed, to stand, he nearly collapses all over again. Because the sights and sounds of the Shack aren’t the only things that feel familiar. Everything from the carpet beneath his feet to the way the room sits at perfect eye level, the feel of his bones beneath his skin to the weight of each step he takes towards the mirror in the corner.

Dipper inches into view of his reflection and a small whimper escapes him.

He never realized how much he missed being twelve, being him. Being real.

“Dipper!” Mabel’s voice echoes up the stairs, and it’s also so familiar it hurts. Her high pitched, nasally, sing-song voice settles over him like a blanket, lures him out of their room and down to the kitchen. The moment she sees him, she smiles, and he’s never wanted an awkward sibling hug more.

“There you are, kiddo,” Grunkle Stan appears at his side, claps him hard on the back, and he has to stop himself from just believing, from just accepting this as real, real, real. Even though he wants it so badly to be. “We thought you were gonna sleep right through to lunch.”

Dipper didn’t notice before, but he smells it now. Burnt pancakes. Grunkle Stan’s specialty.

“I just made some Mabel Juice, Bro Bro!” Mabel grins, holding up a blender from her spot at the kitchen table. Dipper’s heart lurches at the sight. It’s too perfect. Too right. “You can have an extra shot if you need help waking up.”

“Th-Thanks, I-” Dipper starts to say, but the sound of his voice, his voice, makes him pause. He settles a hand just below his collarbone, thumb brushing the slick fabric of his favorite blue vest. He could cry. He wants to. 

_I want this._

“Look who finally decided to show up for breakfast,” a new voice arrives at the door to the kitchen. Dipper’s heart must stop for as much as that sound makes his chest ache. Dipper turns towards it as if in slow motion.

Ford has some sort of blinking, metal contraption in his hands, his focus bouncing between it and Dipper. Half his face is covered in soot and a portion of his coat is singed and still smoking. It’s so Great Uncle Ford that Dipper has to lean against the kitchen table to steady himself.

_I want this._

“You alright, Dipper?” Ford asks, smiling now, full focus on Dipper, and it hurts, it hurts, nothing has ever hurt this badly. Because he wants to believe this, he wants to be here more than anything, but he knows, he knows that he’s not. He should take that as strength, he should use that knowledge to fight back.

But all it really does is cause his knees to buckle beneath him, his eyes to burn and blur.

“Dipper?” The sound of metal hitting the kitchen floor, of boot-clad footsteps rushing in his direction. Ford at his side at once, a hand on his back. “Hey, kid. It’s alright. Whatever happened, it’s going to be okay.”

And Dipper wants that to be true more than anything, thinks maybe, if he just gives in, it could be. He’s home. Right now. He’s home and with his family and everything could be okay if he just-

Ford pulls Dipper into his arms, hugs him tight.

“Don’t worry, Dipper. I’m here for you.”

And that’s… Not right.

Things fall back into place like dominos colliding into each other, dropping one by one into a new shape, a new image. One that might hurt, might not be what he wants, but one that makes sense.

_I want this._

_But I want something else more._

Dipper pulls out of the hug and gets to his feet. He steps back.

_I want this to be real._

“You just can’t seem to get Ford right, can you?” Dipper says, feeling Bill’s presence looming suddenly over his shoulder.

His whole family is looking at him now, smiles frozen into place. Bill puts a hand on the back of his neck and it feels wrong. Jarring.

“I could probably stand to tweak a few things here or there,” Bill hums. “But I think, in general I did a pretty-”

Dipper doesn’t give him a chance to finish, whirling around to face him. He knows he’s eighteen again, sees it in the way Bill and him are the same height, feels it in the way his muscles move awkwardly beneath his skin. Either way, he uses the unexpectedness, the momentum, to wrap both hands around Bill’s neck, forcing him into the kitchen wall and squeezing. That surprise from before returns, flashes briefly across Bill’s face before morphing into a look of dark irritation. Dipper squeezes that much harder, fingertips digging into skin roughly enough that on anyone else, it would probably bruise. He leans in.

“I know I’m probably not even hurting you,” Dipper pants, even smiles a bit, though that might be hysteria settling it. When Bill swallows, Dipper can feel the bob of his Adam’s apple beneath his fingers. he chuckles, tries not to hear how manic it sounds. “But it definitely makes me feel better.”

Bill’s throat clicks, a sound that might be intentional what with the way he rolls his eyes in obvious punctuation.

Dipper is suddenly falling again, this time face first. It’s a short fall, and one that ends with Dipper’s forehead colliding painfully with the edge of Dr. Cipher’s desk. Dipper yelps in pain, crumpling to the floor. He cradles his forehead in his hand, feeling a wetness against his fingers that he knows isn’t real. Not that that means it hurts any less.

“You’re really making this harder on yourself than it needs to be, Pine Tree,” Bill sighs, and when Dipper looks up, he’s back behind his desk, back to playing Dr. Cipher. Dipper hates it, wants to rip the face off of him like a Summerween mask.

“If the easy way is saying yes to being ridden like a mechanical bull until you get bored of being human, I’ll take the hard route, thanks,” Dipper groans, forcing himself to his feet, a hand still pressed firmly against his head.

Bill scoffs, resting an elbow on the armrest of his chair, chin in hand. “You might want to consider a different turn of phrase.”

A spark of growing aggravation runs down Dipper’s spine. “How’s this turn of phrase then?” He says, putting both hands on Dr. Cipher’s desk and looking Bill square in the face, latching on to Bill’s gaze with his own display of fierce determination. “Nothing you could say or do, nothing you could attempt to make me believe, will _ever_ end in my willingly becoming your puppet. Never again. So either kill me now or send me home, because I’m done playing your games.”

Bill holds his stare for a moment, a tense and weighted silence stretching between them long enough that Dipper stops wondering if he’s going to respond and starts wondering if he needs to grab something off Dr. Cipher’s desk to defend himself. 

Before he can, however, Bill leans back in his chair and hums a thoughtful note, looking Dipper up and down.

“Kill you it is, then, I guess,” he eventually says.

The finality of those words doesn’t register at first, a numbness settling over Dipper that makes it impossible for him to understand what he’s just heard. But once he does, even then, it seem to be followed by mental obstacles like, _That’s it?_ Or, _Surely he’s just messing with my head again._ Or most persistently, _He can’t possibly just be done with me. After all that._

Yet even under a barrage of disbelief, Dipper still manages to back away on autopilot, heart pounding, sending bursts of adrenaline into his system in a semblance of fight or flight. Not that he has anywhere to flee to. Or anything to fight with. Not really.

“I was really hoping you’d come around, Pine Tree,” Bill sighs, and while it’s very obviously put upon, there’s something in his demeanor that catches Dipper off guard. Like genuine disappointment. Not that it lasts very long. “Oh well!” Bill grins, practically jumping to his feet. “So how do you wanna go?” He asks as he walks around the desk, settling himself directly in front of Dipper. “Asphyxiation?” He holds his arm out between them, hand open at first, and then slowly closing into a fist. Dipper feels the air leave his lungs in a painful wheeze, his throat growing tighter as Bill’s hand does. Dipper panics, stumbles, falls to his knees. “Maybe not,” Bill chuckles, and all at once, Dipper is gasping, sucking in breath after breath, his throat strangely sore.

“What about burning alive, ever tried that one before?” Bill chuckles, and Dipper feels the heat even before he’s managed to fully process Bill’s words. Dipper looks frantically around at what appears to be a circle of flames inching closer, closer. There’s not much Dipper can do but crowd in on himself and wait, terrified, as the fire gets close enough to lick at his legs, his arms. He watches in horror as it starts to burn holes in his clothes, holds his breath in panic as it starts to sting.

But then, just like before, it’s gone.

“Naw, I don’t think so,” Bill is still chuckling, still watching him like Dipper’s the most entertaining television show he’s seen in millennia. “Despite all this, I do like you, Pine Tree. I really do. So for you, kid? How about something quick and painless?”

With more effort than it should take, Dipper forces himself to look up, wills his eyes to take in whatever nightmare of a death Bill has chosen. But all he sees is Bill’s arm held straight out, hand folded into the universal pantomime for gun.

Even after all he’s been through, Dipper still can’t seem to figure out if Bill’s just joking, teasing him maybe, tormenting him. But something about the look on Bill’s face makes him think he’s not. It may not be a real gun pointed between Dipper’s eyes, but Dipper’s certain it’ll be firing real bullets.

“Last chance, Dipper,” Bill says, voice stern and much, much too close for how far away Bill is standing. The sound of his name on those lips wreaks havoc, make something in Dipper want to give in, agree. But the fear is more powerful; the desperate need for the building anticipation to cease keeps Dipper’s mouth closed. “Just say yes. And this will all be over. You’d enjoy yourself with me. You know you would.” And some part of Dipper knows he’s right. With death staring him in the face, there’s no point in denying that. Bill smirks as if listening, as if he’s known all along. “Think about it, Dipper. An eternity of whatever you want, whenever you want. How many kids get that luxury, huh? It shouldn’t even be a question! The whole of the multiverse at your fingertips or death? Surely you’re smart enough to see the right answer.”

And something about that ultimatum settles it.

Dipper’s never been more terrified in his life. Even in that moment, pills in hand, there wasn’t a fear as all consuming as this. It’s the first time in what seems like a lifetime that he actually feels twelve years old again. And even so. Even so.

“Fuck you, Bill.”

For the third time in what feels like as many minutes, the flash of surprise on Bill’s face is as genuine as it is brief. The look of stern disappointment is less so.

“Your loss, Pine Tree.” Bill levels his hand at a steady and sure point in the vicinity of Dipper’s forehead and Dipper forces himself to keep his eyes open. After a painfully long moment, Bill smiles. 

“Bang.”

The sound of actual gunfire explodes a millisecond after the word leaves Bill’s lips. It’s deafening, startling, and if it weren’t for the distraction of a bullet embedding itself in Dipper’s brain, he probably would have screamed.

Dipper feels the moment of impact as if in slow motion, the piercing of his skin, the cracking of his skull. There’s pain, sure, but it’s so inconsequential in comparison to the literal sensation of metal ripping through him. He’s certain he can even feel his brain exploding out the back of his head as the bullet barrels through.

The force of it knocks him onto his back, the fake ceiling in a fake office of a fake mental hospital in a fake reality the last thing Dipper will ever see.

Except, after a few moments of staring, Dipper starts to wonder if this last image is the only thing he’ll ever see again. Because he’s still staring at it. Minutes later and he’s still lying on the office’s hardwood floor, still staring, and strangely enough… Still not dead.

Dipper raises a hand, leaden and shaky, to rest on his forehead. No bullet wound, no blood.

Dipper should probably be livid, should be furious at Bill for tricking him again, but all he can manage to do is let his hand fall back to his side, his chest aching and his eyes burning. The tears fall before he can stop them. He’s too tapped out to care.

Vaguely, Dipper notices the sound of Bill approaching, sees him from the periphery as he settles down next to Dipper on the floor.

“I changed my mind,” Bill says, far, far too casual for what all that implies. 

Dipper wants to ask him why, but his throat is wet and swollen. Bill probably wouldn’t answer anyway.

They stay there together, on the floor, in silence for a while. Eventually Dipper’s tears dry, though the ache in his chest is persistent. He’s never been so tired in his life.

It’s then that Bill whispers, “If I asked you again, right now… Would you say yes?”

And more than anything, the driving force that helps Dipper shake his head no is that fact that, for a moment, he genuinely considers it.

“Hm,” Bill chuckles, though it sounds more to himself than to anyone else. “Too bad.”

Bill gets to his feet. Dipper stays on the floor, laying there in silent agony. It’s easier.

“I’m excited to see what you intend to do then, Pine Tree,” Bill says eventually. “I mean, you must have some sort of ingenious plan, right? I can’t imagine any other reason why you’d torture yourself like this.”

Dipper wants to think he does, thought he did maybe, at one point, but right now? Right now, nothing he could possibly do feels ingenious enough to save him. He’s going to be trapped here forever… Isn’t he?

“Well then,” Bill claps his hands together, the amusement back in his voice. “I’ll let you go. Mull it over. Strategize. Get out your graph paper or whatever it is nerds like you and Sixer like to do before a fight.” 

Dipper doesn’t move. Not because he doesn’t want to. He just… can’t.

“Aw,” Bill is suddenly kneeling next to him again, running a hand through Dipper’s hair. Dipper barely has the energy to flinch at the contact. “I really did a number on you, didn’t I, Pine Tree?” He chuckles, a soft whisper of sardonic sound, and Dipper’s never hated him more than in that moment. “Here, kid. Let me give you a hand with that.”

In a blink, Dipper’s staring at another ceiling. He’s back in his hospital room, bed beneath his back. With an almost robotic intention, Dipper grabs the edge of the bed and pulls himself into a sitting position. The image of the ceiling shifts downward until it’s the image of the wallpaper. A light, robin’s egg blue. Dipper feels his shoulders slump, feels his throat tighten.

He thought his tears had dried out. They hadn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journey is almost over. I can't promise it'll be happy, or that's been any manner of happy along the way, but I'm honored you all decided to take it with me.
> 
> Next friday, if not sooner, will be the final update. Chapter is already written, just waiting to be edited. You all have made this a fic to remember. Thank you.


	11. No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some good advice, a last confrontation, and it all, finally, ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. The final chapter in what has been, by far, my favorite thing to work on. Ever. I'm genuinely sad to see it go, but beyond flattered and thrilled that it's gotten such a magnificent amount of response. Your kudos and comments always make my day, and I hope that this makes for a satisfying ending.
> 
> It's been one hell of a ride, my dears. Now for the final stretch. God speed and I love you all.

Dipper doesn’t sleep that night.

He doesn’t really sleep the next night either.

By the time Sunday rolls around, he hasn’t eaten, has barely slept, and has taken to keeping himself cooped up in his room.

He doesn’t have a plan.

He thought he did, knows he’d managed to work out some semblance of a strategy at one point, but now? What could he possibly do? 

Bill’s won.

Dipper lets his head fall into his hands, pressing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Mabel, Stan, and Ford will be arriving in two days. That is, if Bill hasn’t altered reality again, made it so they never show up. 

And even if they do, what’s the point? All Dipper had wanted was support. Somehow, knowing they would be here would make him stronger. But it’s not them and they’re not really here, so what’s he going to do? Dipper pulls his hands away from his face, eyes blurry and mottled with stars.

Every time Dipper closes his eyes he sees a bullet careening towards his face, a sea of maple syrup and Bill’s hand filling his lungs. He sees his family and the Shack and hears Ford’s voice whispering, “Don’t worry, Dipper. I’m here for you,” like Dipper has always wanted him to, knowing he probably never will. And that’s okay. That’s just the way Ford is. But the intensity with which, even for just a moment, he had wanted it to be real, was almost willing to accept it even though he knew it wasn’t... Dipper hugs his knees to his chest, tucks himself further into the bed.

It scared him.

_I’m scared._

Bill is expecting an “ingenious plan” and all Dipper can do is bury himself in sheets and pillows, wrack his brain for a divine move in a game he feels like he’s already lost. For not the first time, Dipper’s stomach lurches. He feels like he’s going to throw up. He doesn’t. But that’s probably only because his stomach has been empty for days.

Dipper rests his head in his arms, tries to make himself as small as he feels. This is insane. Bill is a monster. He’s just a kid. How is he supposed to survive this? Either he’s trapped here forever or Bill gets bored and kills him. No other outcome seems logical anymore.

The beginning of a sob clutches at Dipper’s chest, his shoulders shaking.

_I wish Mabel were here._

Mabel would know what to do. Mabel would know what to say. Mabel would make him feel safe and happy and like nothing was impossible. Mabel would help him out of this like she always does. 

But Dipper is alone here. Only one half of a pair of Mystery Twins. And that’s just not gonna cut it.

That sob at the center of his chest spreads, tendrils of pain and watery shudders wracking his insides, crawling their way out. Dipper tries to hold it in, tries to be strong, but he’s never felt more weak, never felt more like a child. Never felt so alone.

_I can’t do this on my own. Please don’t make me do this on my own._

A hand touches his shoulder and Dipper nearly falls off the bed in shock.

“Jesus, Dipper!” Pacifica backs away from him, hands by her face, defensive. She looks about as shocked as he feels, his heart practically in his ears and his lips parted in disbelief.

“P-Pacifica?” Dipper croaks, voice rough from crying and lack of use. He clears his throat before trying again. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just walking by your room,” Pacifica says. She looks away, lets her hands fall to her sides. “And I saw…” She blushes, embarrassed, and Dipper probably would be too, would have in any other situation where he’s been caught crying, but he’s still too dumbfounded by her presence, distracted by the impossibility of it. Pacifica runs a hand through her hair and continues, voice soft. “You looked like you could use some company.”

Dipper’s own words rush back to him. A plea for help. _Please don’t make me do this on my own._

She’s here because of him. He pulled her out of Bill’s abyss and brought her here. So in some ways, at least, he still has control. Even if Bill is simply allowing it, simply stepping back and watching for now, Dipper chooses to see that as meaningful. Important. Even if it doesn’t necessarily help him with a plan, it’s still important.

“Um, yeah,” Dipper sniffs, wiping unsuccessfully at the wetness on his face. He scoots over, gives Pacifica room to join him on the bed. She hesitates, but eventually does. “Thanks. For coming in.”

Pacifica nods, not quite looking at him. But after a moment, she whispers, “You alright, Dipper? I mean. You looked-”

“Like a mess?” Dipper smirks, hardly any amusement behind it. “I know. Things aren’t… Too great right now.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Dipper shakes his head. “You probably should anyway though.”

And Dipper can’t help but laugh at that. Because he’s never talked this way with the real Pacifica, and yet, somehow, this feels right, like if given the chance, these are the words she would use. This is the advice he thinks she would give.

And maybe he’s just talking to himself, but-

“But that’s okay too,” Pacifica finishes his thought for him, turning to look at him with a very Pacifica sort of smile. “At least it’s better than sitting here alone and crying.”

Despite himself, Dipper is still caught off guard. This is a new level of insanity, creating a hallucination out of loneliness just to keep him company. But after a while, he nods, chuckling softly to himself. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Neither of them says anything for a moment though. It’s a weird kind of silence, but not exactly uncomfortable. Like being alone with his thoughts but not quite.

Eventually, not even really sure why, Dipper says, “Bill is winning.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pacifica nod. “I know.”

“I don’t know if I can beat him.”

“Probably not.”

Dipper turns to look at her, stunned.

If he’s basically just giving himself advice right now, he’s really bad at it.

Pacifica turns to look at him too. She shrugs. “You probably can’t beat him. You know that.” Dipper wants to argue, but a part of him knows there’s no point. She’s right. Beating Bill? Actually defeating him? It doesn’t seem possible. “But you don’t have to beat him, right? I mean, not really.”

Dipper frowns. “I don’t-”

“You just have to get home.” 

Dipper blinks. She makes it sound like the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’s been thinking himself in circles all this time only to have forgotten what was most important.

“Everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing,” Pacifica continues. “You’ve had to do it by yourself. But if you can get home, get back to your family, you won’t have to _finish_ this by yourself. You can defeat him together.”

“But getting home…” Dipper sighs. “It’s the only thing I’ve wanted. All this time. What makes now any different?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Pacifica rolls her eyes at him, and it makes his heart lurch. “ _Everything_ is different now. You know Bill’s plans, you know his reason for all of this. You have more control now than you ever have. If there was ever a chance for you to find a way home, it’s now.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Dipper shakes his head. Pacifica huffs.

“Of course it won’t be _easy_ , but it will be _possible_. And that’s a better hand than you’ve been dealt in a while.”

She’s right. He _knows_ she’s right. But-

“Look, Dipper,” Pacifica sighs, turns to face him more completely. He can’t help but be drawn to the fierceness in her eyes. Like she’s his determination incarnate. “You’ve been through a lot. More than any kid should have to go through. But you’ve survived this whole time, right? You just have to keep doing that a little bit longer.”

Dipper sighs, a breath of air that settles somewhere between a whimper and a strained chuckle. “I don’t know if I have a little bit longer in me, Paz.”

“You’ve never called me Paz before,” Pacifica blinks. 

Dipper shrugs, feels his face warm. “I like it. I think it suits you.” 

The weird but comfortable silence returns. Pacifica places a hand on his knee. It’s oddly comforting.

“I wonder,” Dipper says, a whisper that’s as sad as it is involuntary. “I wonder what would happen if I said yes.” Dipper closes his eyes for a moment, pictures Mabel and Ford and Stan, pictures Wendy and Soos, pictures a life he wants nothing more than to return to. Then he pictures it all over again with Bill looming over his shoulder. Dipper opens his eyes and glances at Pacifica. “You think he’d let me go home?”

She stares at him, lips parting in surprise. Then she frowns, raises a hand, and smacks him across the back of the head.

“Hey, ow!” Dipper hisses, rubbing at the point of contact. “What the hell was that for?”

“Thoughts like that, Dipper?” Pacifica snaps, leaning in and pointing a finger in his direction, poking him none too gently in the chest with it. “Thoughts like that are the reason you broke. They’re the reason you’re here talking to me instead of coming up with a plan. They’re the reason Bill thinks he’s already won. Because part of you is starting to want him to. It’ll be _easier_ if he wins. It’ll finally be _over_ if he wins. You might be able to go _home_ if he wins. He’ll stop _hurting me_ if he wins. But you know what, Dipper?” Pacifica stops poking him, raising that hand to his shoulder and capturing his gaze with a seriousness he’s never seen on her face before. Like her next words are important, important, pay attention. “Every time a thought like that pops into your head, you’re only hurting yourself.”

And just like that, a switch flips. 

Dipper sucks in a surprised breath. Pacifica smiles.

_I’m… only hurting myself._

One by one, the pieces begin to take their squares. Knights and rooks and bishops surround the king and queen. A single pawn makes that first move forward.

Everything begins to fall into place.

“It’s a gamble,” Dipper breathes, runs a shaking hand through his hair. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins, jumpstarting his heart into overdrive. “If I’m wrong-”

“If you’re wrong,” Pacifica continues for him, grabbing his other trembling hand and holding it tight. “At least you’ll know you tried. You fought tooth and nail to the end, Dipper Pines. There isn’t much more you can ask of yourself.”

A desire grips him that’s too powerful to ignore. So he doesn’t.

Dipper places a surprisingly steady hand against Pacifica’s cheek, leans in, and kisses her.

Her lips are soft and pliant against his this time. They taste like some sort of fruity chapstick; he has no idea how he didn’t notice before. But after a moment, Pacifica must giggle, a breath of amusement through her nose that tickles his face and makes him pause. Dipper breaks the kiss, pulling away.

“What?” He asks, and if his voice is a little rougher than usual, well. He _is_ almost thirteen. Nineteen? Touchy subject.

Pacifica licks her lips, smiles.

“You do realize,” she says, grinning wider. “That you’re basically making out with yourself right now.”

Dipper winces, lets his hand fall away from Pacifica’s cheek with a groan. “Well I do _now_.” He rubs that hand along the back of his neck instead, face burning. Pacifica just laughs, easing her way off the bed.

“Maybe the real Pacifica would be equally as receptive,” she smirks, leaning against the doorframe for a moment. “You should test that theory when you get back home.” Dipper shakes his head.

“I’m pretty sure the real Pacifica Northwest wouldn’t be caught dead.”

Pacifica shrugs, still smiling. “You never know until you try.”

One more weird yet comfortable silence passes, and then Pacifica pushes away from the doorframe, turns to leave.

“Thank you,” Dipper says before she has the chance to vanish again. She glances over her shoulder at him, waiting. Dipper runs a hand through his hair, fingers scratching lightly against his scalp. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Obviously,” Pacifica rolls her eyes, but the smile continues to tug at the corners of her lips. “Though technically you already have.”

And with those as her parting words, she walks through the door and out of sight. Somehow, Dipper knows he’s never going to see her again, knows that once his awareness and control had meshed with the purpose he’d created her for, she would walk out of his life and never come back.

But he also knows that’s okay, because from here on out, it’s the mantra of her words that give him strength. It’s her advice that gives him hope.

_You’ve survived this whole time, right? You just have to keep doing that a little bit longer._

He can see the finish line in the distance, can get there first if he sprints.

Just a little bit longer. And not much farther left to run.

_But why wait?_

Dipper closes his eyes, whispers, “It’s not Sunday. It’s Tuesday.” 

And just like that, it is. He opens his eyes, sees the change in light filtering through his window, and just knows.

For the first time in days, he feels a spark of determination. His family will be here any minute.

_Bring it on._

 

xxx

 

The walk to the visitor’s lounge seems a lot longer than usual. Dipper figures it’s probably smoke and mirrors on Bill’s part. Then again, it might also be the finality of it all. Part of him can’t help looking over his shoulder, wondering when Bill is going to stop waiting in the wings and start cutting him off at the pass. But the other part of him knows that Bill won’t. In the end, Bill wants nothing more than to be entertained, after all.

Around another corner, down another hallway, and Dipper hasn’t seen a single person yet. No staff, no patients. Even compared to the usual, it’s disturbingly vacant. No more playing pretend there, it looks like.

One more hallway, one more corner, and he runs full on into Soos.

“Oh, sorry, dude,” Soos smiles, props his mop up behind him. Dipper shakes off the rush of surprise and takes a step back, trying not to slip on the wet floor.

“I-It’s alright,” Dipper stammers, thrown off guard. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

For an almost uncomfortable length of time, they stare at each other in silence. Until eventually, Soos laughs, balancing on the handle of the broom. “You know, it’s pretty cool, dude,” he says, and he sounds so familiar, even if his voice is older, raspier. Dipper can’t help but smile right along with him; it’s always been that way with Soos, he realizes. Even if he’s never realized until now.

It’s because of this that Dipper can’t help himself, can’t stop himself asking, “What’s cool?”

Soos just keeps on smiling, keeps on chuckling softly to himself the way that Soos always does. Always used to? “You know, like, how you keep trying and stuff. I mean, even right now, right? You’re on your way to see Stan and Mabel, aren’t you?”

Dipper closes his eyes for a moment, breathes out a suspicious and tense breath through his nose. He almost lost himself, but no. No, this is just like everything else. Fake, a test, a mirage in the desert. “Yeah,” he says, because he feels like he has to. Soos just nods, spinning the mop around itself before leaning on it again.

“That’s so rad, dude,” Soos whistles, pointing the handle of the mop in his direction. The end of it splashes against the pant legs of his janitor’s uniform, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I mean, doing all of this even though you know they’re not real. Just, wow.”

The rush of betrayal shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but Dipper can’t keep from exhaling a sharp and disappointed breath through his nose. “Get out of my way, Soos,” he says without thinking, choosing to ignore the look of surprised hurt that crosses this Soos’ face.

“Sorry, dude,” he whispers, but Dipper is already walking past him, already focused back on the task at hand. He didn’t call for Soos, didn’t wish for his presence. So he should have assumed, should have known. Even if Bill claims to be letting him play the rest of his game out on his own, there was no way he’d simply sit idly by.

Dipper passes by another set of empty doors, walks down one more hallway, the final stretch.

And there’s Wendy.

He didn’t ask for her either, didn’t put her there, so this must be Bill too. And even so, Dipper falters. This isn’t _his_ Wendy, not by a long shot, but she’s still _Wendy_ , and so he has no will to simply pass her by without doing something, saying something. Goodbye, maybe, though that seems dangerous somehow. He settles for hello instead.

“Hey, Wendy,” Dipper initiates, pauses about ten feet away. She’s not doing anything, just standing there like an obstacle at the end of the hallway that he has to pass. She looks sad. “I didn’t think you were working this Tuesday,” he says, testing out the waters.

Wendy fidgets, looking more awkward than he’s ever seen her. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, but he holds his ground, waiting for her response.

“I’m covering Tambry’s shift,” she says after a moment. And Dipper lets out a silent breath of relief. Even with her strings being so obviously pulled by Bill, Dipper still has a modicum of his control.

“Oh,” Dipper clears his throat, takes a step forward. “That’s cool. I was just on my way to-

“Don’t do it, Dipper,” She pleads, and even from where he stands, he can see that her eyes have gone wet, her shoulders shaking. “You’re only going to keep hurting yourself.”

It sounds so different compared to how Pacifica said it, but it still has the same effect.

“I know,” Dipper shrugs. “But if that’s what I have to do-”

“Can’t you stay?” She tries to smile, but it looks strained and broken. It makes something churn at the pit of Dipper’s stomach. He takes another step forward, but so does she. In a few more steps, they’re right in front of each other, barely a hands breadth apart. “Haven’t I been taking good care of you?”

Dipper doesn’t really know what to say. He shouldn’t feel guilty, has nothing to feel guilty _about_ , not here, but he does. The look on her face settles like dead weight against his chest, making it harder for him to breathe, harder for him to form the words.

But eventually, he does.

“You’re not real, Wendy,” he says, tries to be matter-of-fact, but he can’t seem to help the way his voice shakes.

“I-I know,” Wendy sniffles, wipes a hand over her eyes. This time, when she smiles, it’s a bit more genuine, thought nowhere near less sad. “I know, but… But maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe you could be happy here. Couldn’t you, Dip? You can have whatever you want. _Who_ ever you want. Pacifica, Dr. Cipher… Me.” She blushes, a bright red tint to her cheeks.

And for some reason, that just makes Dipper angry.

“This isn’t working, Bill,” He frowns, tries not to be effected by the way Wendy’s eyes widen in shame.

“Dipper, I-” she tries, but he ignores her.

He knows Bill will be there even before he turns around. And even so, Bill’s proximity knocks him a bit off his axis, make shim question his footing.

“Nothing in this reality will convince me to stay, Bill,” Dipper says, voice stern. “Not anymore.”

“Well,” Bill grins, hands on his hips. “It was worth a try.”

“What happened to stepping back and waiting for my _ingenious plan_?” Dipper rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, but Bill just shrugs, amused.

“I figured one more test wouldn’t hurt,” he chuckles. “Not that it was much of one. You shot poor Wendy down like a proper marksman, Pine Tree. It was impressive.” The guilt flares again, but Dipper smothers it, taking a step away.

“My family is waiting for me,” he says, not even exactly sure why. They both know that’s not exactly true. Some version of Dipper’s family is sitting behind the door to the lobby, but it’s only an illusion. A beautiful daydream.

“Best not keep them waiting then, kid,” Bill smirks, gesturing towards the end of the hall, the door to the visiting lounge suddenly standing in stark contrast to the rest of the building, a bright yellow door with a black handle. Dipper walks towards it anyway and wills the intimidation away as best he can.

Thankfully, just past the door is the normal lobby, no additions, no nightmares, no tricks of the mind. Just the small room with its couple of chairs. And his family seated within them.

Mabel and Stan look up the moment he enters, but Dipper’s eyes instantly lock onto Ford. He looks older too, just like Stan, but different. Still the same man that Dipper saw walk confidently out of the portal what feels like years ago. And yet, when their eyes meet, Dipper knows he’s not quite right. Like he’s lacking something.

Again, Dipper doesn’t quite know what to say. He’s come up with a semblance of a plan since talking with Pacifica, sure. But actually being here, looking at Bill’s interpretation of his family, he finds he’s at a loss for words.

 _I need your help_ , he thinks. _I need you to help me get back to them._

Suddenly, their smiles shift, their eyes soften. Even Ford’s. “Of course, Bro Bro,” Mabel says, holding a hand out in his direction. “Just tell us what you need us to do.”

Dipper blinks, taken aback. He knows his control reaches far, but even so, the way they look at him now, so full of love and hope and promise… He’s not really sure he can handle it.

“This is it, kid,” Grunkle Stan smiles, leaning back in his chair. He looks a little younger than he did a couple of seconds ago. Is that possible? Stan stretches an across his chest, groaning at the strain. “The final showdown, right? We’ve got your back.”

“Dipper,” Ford says, and everything else stops for a moment, zeroing in. This may not be _his_ Great Uncle Ford. This may not be _the_ author of the journals. But the way he walks over, places a hand on Dipper’s shoulder, the way he captures Dipper’s gaze in a way that’s meant to be both stern and comforting, somehow that _is_ all Ford. Somehow, Dipper can’t help but feel invigorated by it. “Whenever you’re ready, Dipper. So are we.”

Dipper starts to nod, then stops, eyes bouncing from this strange and older version of his Grunkles, this similar but different version of his sister. They still feel wrong, still feel tethered and bound and wrapped up in Bill’ strings like marionettes. He has to do something first. For his own peace of mind.

“You’re not ready yet,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment. He thinks and wishes and dreams and pulls at the corners of his mind until he’s sure he’s reestablished control. 

Before he has the chance to open his eyes again, he feels a hand grab his own, small but strong. He lets his eyes flutter open, looking to his side. 

And there she is.

Mabel smiles up at him, exactly as he remembers her. Probably no more than a month has past and yet it feels like ages ago. A lifetime. But from her sweater to her headband to the goofy smile she beams in his direction, everything about her is Mabel. _His_ Mabel. Twelve years old and full of hope and pointing him in the right direction like she always has. His beacon in the darkness. His kittens and tickles instead of violence and fear.

Dipper tightens his grip on her hand and looks over at Grunkle Stan, at Great Uncle Ford. They’re much the same, a little younger and a lot more familiar. Grunkle Stan leans against his cane and winks at him, his jeans and button up shirt from moments ago replaced with his Man of Mystery ensemble. Great Uncle Ford nods at him, smile strained but determined. His trench coat drags across the floor as he takes a step back.

“Dipper?” Mabel whispers, pulling at his hand to grab his attention. Dipper looks down, hating how far away she is. Her eyes glisten as she asks, “Are _you_ ready?”

Dipper does the only thing that makes sense. He drops down to his knees and pulls her into a hug, letting himself take comfort in the familiarity of it. The sheer and undeniable rightness of it. No awkwardness, no pat-pat on the back. Just two siblings clutching onto each other for dear life. Anchoring each other to earth.

Eventually, though, Dipper is forced to pull away. He doesn’t know how much time he has left, but he figures it’s not much. He places a hand on Mabel’s head, ruffling her hair.

“We’re about to find out,” Dipper smiles. And somehow, it feels genuine. Somehow it feels like a promise.

Somehow, it feels like the first step towards home.

 

xxx

 

Unfortunately, he never really put much thought into how he’d get from point A to point B.

He has his family, he has control, but now what? If this gamble is going to work, he needs Bill present and paying attention. As much as he wishes he didn’t, he actually needs Bill to show up this time. Which, of course, means that he’s going to do anything but.

“Come on,” Dipper gestures at his family, already halfway out of the lobby. “Follow me.”

They do without a word, trailing behind him as he leads them towards the main stairwell. He needs a spot that’s too theatrical for Bill to ignore, somewhere too dramatic for him to deny himself a final performance.

Ultimately, Dipper settles for the roof. In any other situation, roof access would probably be restricted, perpetually blocked off. But Dipper decides that it’s not and it isn’t, door practically held wide open for them as they climb the last flight of stairs. 

The air smells crisp, like fall, and Dipper’s struck with the realization that, for the last month or so, he hasn’t set foot outside. Living at the Shack is like living in the woods; even indoors, the sights, sounds, and smells of nature permeate Dipper’s every waking moment. He never realized how much he missed it.

“Bill!” Dipper shouts into the open air, knowing on some deep and indefinable level that the demon can hear him. “Bill, this ends now!”

“Suuuuuuure it does, Pine tree,” Bill slowly floats into his periphery from over the edge of the building. Right on schedule.

He’s back to his natural form, triangular visage spreading out before Dipper like the Great Pyramid of Giza. With every word out of his mouth, his body thrums with unnatural light, a vibrating pulse that Dipper swears he can feel deep down into his bones.

“So I take it you’ve finally decided on a plan,” Bill hums, tapping a finger just below his giant eye. “And I’m guessing it doesn’t consist of you saying yes.”

Dipper shakes his head, sucking in a deep breath and blowing it out through his nose; it does nothing to settle his steadily rising nerves. “I’ve figured it out, Bill.”

“I’m pretty sure, whatever you think you’ve discovered, you _haven’t_ ,” Bill waves a hand between them dismissively. It blows a rush of wind in Dipper’s direction, nearly knocking him over if it weren’t for Grunkle Stan’s hand suddenly at his shoulder. “But I’ll humor you, kid. Enlighten me.”

Except, Dipper’s not exactly sure how to explain his revelation from earlier. He doesn’t have proof, not really. This whole thing is nothing more than a flip of a coin at this point; heads he’s right, tails he’s dead.

_Oh. That’s an idea._

“How about I humor you, instead?” Dipper shouts back, voice a tad smug, but mostly still just anxious. And more than a little bit terrified. Bill narrows his eye, though whether it’s in curiosity or suspicion, Dipper has a hard time differentiating.

“What are you on about, Pine Tree?”

“Kill me,” Dipper says before he has the chance to convince himself what a horrible idea this is. 

This time, the flash of emotion on Bill’s triangular face is most definitely surprise. It fades fast though, replaced with his usual combination of smug amusement and dangerous cunning. “Giving up so soon? We haven’t even started the final round!”

“I’m not giving up, Bill,” Dipper scoffs, raising his voice a bit more. “I’m asking you to kill me.”

This time when Bill narrows his eye in Dipper’s direction, he seems almost frustrated. Eventually he says, “I don’t follow. I mean, I’ll kill you no problem, if that’s what you want, but I don’t see how-”

“But will you, though?” Dipper asks, and Bill is instantly silenced. Even the normal thrum of his demonic energy seems to settle. His full attention is on Dipper, every ounce of his focus on whatever words Dipper plans to say next. 

“Because I don’t think so.” Dipper takes a breath, stands strong, looks Bill square in the eye. “I’m asking you to kill me, Bill… because I don’t think you can.”

Bill’s entire form seems to back away from the edge of the building with a jolt, his giant eye struck wide. But after a moment, whatever shock that wracks him gives way to a booming, ear splitting cackle. 

“Oh, Pine Tree! You crack me up!” He laughs, and Dipper might be imagining it, might just be hoping, but it sounds a bit forced. “Of course I can kill you. After all this time, surely don’t-”

“Then do it,” Dipper interrupts. “Do it right now and prove to me that you can, because I’m done playing you stupid games, Bill. I’d rather die than live another day in this reality.” Dipper holds his arms out wide, tilts his head back, eyes closed. “Ready when you are.”

A moment passes. Then another. Eventually, Dipper’s forced to open his eyes, and the look of annoyance on Bill’s face is enough to make a laugh of his own bubble at the center of his chest.

“I knew it,” Dipper shakes his head, torn between relief and amusement and rage. “You may be able to mess with my head, but you can’t cause me any actual harm. Not in the mindscape.”

Bill doesn’t reply. And it’s all the proof that Dipper needs.

“But I can, can’t I?” Dipper asks, more for his own benefit, willing himself to believe that it’s true. It’s tragically important that it be.

“What?” Bill frowns, drifting back to the edge of the building. If Dipper doesn’t know any better, he’d say that Bill looks nervous.

“You can’t kill me, not in here.” Dipper focuses his control on a weight in his hands, cold hard metal that materializes almost instantly. He wraps his hand around the barrel of the gun and looks up. “But I can. I’ll bet you anything, if I really wanted to, all I’d have to do is pull the trigger.”

“As if killing yourself worked so well last time,” Bill huffs, but Dipper just shakes his head again, smirking.

“The mind is a powerful thing.”

Dipper looks at the gun in his hand, feels the weight of it. It would be almost poetic, to send himself out the same way Bill had pretended to. But poetry doesn’t make the act any easier. As much as Dipper is doing his best to appear confident and brave, he’s petrified. So much so that, if the time actually did come, he’s not sure he’d be able to pull the trigger.

But he doesn’t have to, does he? Not really, anyway.

Dipper looks over his shoulder at his family. Mabel’s cheeks are wet, her hands clutching the end of her sweater in a shaking grip. Grunkle Stan is looking away, a frown lining his already wrinkled face, and if Dipper looks hard enough, he can see Stan’s shoulders shaking.

And then there’s Ford.

Ford’s face is stern, the embodiment of the confidence Dipper is trying to make himself feel. He stands tall and stares Bill down like it’s nothing. But when Dipper’s eyes glance lower, he sees Ford’s hands balled into fists at his sides. They’re white knuckled and shaking almost as bad as Mabel’s are.

Dipper looks back at his face and Ford catches his eye, tries to smile in a way that’s probably meant to be comforting but isn’t. It’s so Ford that Dipper almost laughs.

Instead, he merely holds the gun out for Ford to take.

If and when the time comes, he might not be able to pull the trigger, but Ford can. If anyone can, Ford can.

“I-I kept you alive last time, kid,” Bill chimes in suddenly, and the stutter gives Dipper pause. “I’ll do it again.”

“I don’t think you can, though,” Dipper hums, reaching into his pocket for another piece of cold, hard metal that wasn’t there a moment ago. Dipper pulls out the small pocket knife and flips it open. “Not anymore.” Again, he doesn’t give himself time to think, slicing the blade across the palm of his hand, wincing at the flash of pain. He hears Mabel whimper behind him.

“But maybe I’m wrong,” Dipper says, watching as a trail of red begins to drip down his arm. “Here. Prove to me that I’m wrong.” He holds his hand palm first out in Bill’s direction. “If you’re so certain you can save me, then start with this. Fix it right up, Bill. Show me that you can.”

Bill is all but fuming now, hands enveloped in blue flame. But even so, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. And most definitely doesn’t heal the cut across Dipper’s palm.

“You can’t do that either, can you?” Dipper smiles, bringing his hand back in front of his face. It’s not a deep cut, but it stings, the blood flowing freely, if not sluggishly, from the torn skin. He imagines it forming back together, imagines the blood being sucked back under his skin where it belongs. It doesn’t. His mind still remembers the feeling of the blade slicing through, still acknowledges the lingering pain, and because of that, seems unwilling to pretend it never happened.

“Well,” Dipper chuckles sadly to himself. “It looks like neither can I.” He balls that hand into a fist, letting the pain keep him alert, focused. “And if I can’t even heal a simple flesh wound, there’s no way I’m going to survive this.” Dipper glances over his shoulder. “Great Uncle Ford?”

Ford nods once and raises the gun, pointing it directly at Dipper’s temple, hand perfectly steady. Just as Dipper knew it would be.

Dipper tries to be just as steady, just as confident as his uncle when he finally looks back at Bill. _This_ is the gamble. _This_ is where the queen finally moves into play, the beginning of the end of the match.

_Check._

“Either you let me go home,” Dipper says. “Or Uncle Ford puts a bullet in my brain with you still inside.”

Bill blinks, the blue flame engulfing his hands dying out. “You really think that’s possible? Trapping me in your mindscape with something as pathetic and human as _suicide_?”

“I don’t know,” Dipper shrugs. “But I don’t think you know either.” Ford doesn’t even need to be asked, the sound of the gun being cocked catching Dipper’s ear. Dipper keeps his eyes on Bill, keeps his voice sure. “Are you willing to risk being wrong?”

The breeze at the top of the roof ruffles Dipper’s hair, blowing it into his eyes. Bill looms over him like the sun, big and yellow-hot and painful to look at. Having his family to his back keeps Dipper standing, even with the barrel of Ford’s gun so noticeable in the periphery, but the silent standoff beings to weigh heavily on him, a dangerous sense of foreboding approaching.

As if on cue, Bill shrugs. “Go ahead, Pine Tree. Let Great Uncle Fordsy blow your brains out. I insist.” He stretches back, two arms behind his head and another suddenly pulling popcorn from a materialized box in his lap. “Even if I get stuck here, at least it’ll be with a show to send me off.”

Dipper’s heart sinks, his stomach drops out. 

He’d been so certain this would work, so sure of himself and Bill’s bluff and his ingenious plan. But now he’s given himself no other option. He can’t stay here. He can’t do this anymore.

_You fought tooth and nail to the end, Dipper Pines. There isn’t much more you can ask of yourself._

“Alright, Bill,” Dipper whispers, a weary smile lining his lips. “Alright.” He glances at Mabel and her eyes are shining with tears. She mouths the words, _You did your best_ , and Dipper can’t help but think, yeah. That’s exactly what she’d say. Grunkle Stan has one hand on Mabel’s head and the other raised, just slightly, in a broken attempt at a wave goodbye. Dipper can’t help himself. He waves back.

Dipper turns towards his other uncle, and Ford levels the gun between his eyes. “Thanks, Great Uncle Ford,” Dipper whispers, not really sure if he’s talking to this one or the one from a home he’ll never see again. He figures it’s probably both. 

“You’re doing the right thing, Dipper,” Ford says, just a hint of a tremor in his voice. And that sounds like something Ford would say too, even if the heartache in his eyes is a little off.

“I know,” Dipper sighs, sparing one last glance at the chaos god floating overhead. He’s tired. So tired. Maybe this is for the best. Isn’t that what they always say? You can sleep when you’re dead. “I hope you had fun, Bill,” he says. 

Then he closes his eyes and waits for the end.

The gunshot cracks, his heart stops, his forehead explodes in pain. 

But… Not the sort of pain he expects. It feels cold, like frostbite, like a brain-freeze so fierce it must be trying to break its way out of his skull completely. The rest of his body feels oddly numb. 

Dipper reels back, both hands flying to his head. He’s stopped short by the feeling of a six-fingered hand on his shoulder. Although it’s vague and muted, he’s sure he hears the sounds of Mabel’s voice calling out his name, of Grunkle Stan shouting something that might be an expletive.

Dipper carefully, cautiously opens his eyes.

He does so just in time to see Bill pulling his hand away, finger still pointing towards Dipper’s forehead. The image looks frighteningly familiar. Just backwards.

“I’ve gotta hand it to you, Pine Tree,” Bill says. “I never thought you had it in you.”

Nothing quite makes sense yet. Is he dead? He should be dead, shouldn’t he? Dipper glances frantically around. A twelve year old Mabel, _his_ Mabel, is currently struggling against Grunkle Stan’s grasp, trying desperately to get to him. Ford is at his shoulder, staring between Bill and Dipper in a mixture of concern and fury. Bill is hovering about a foot away, no bigger than Dipper’s head. Beyond him are the woods and the Shack and the swirling debris of Bill’s thwarted master plan. It’s all so familiar, all so painfully familiar.

“What did you do to him?” Ford shouts right by Dipper’s ear. Bill laughs.

“What _didn’t_ I do to him?” 

Dipper’s heart his pounding, his knees feel weak.

_What’s happening? What’s happening? What’s happening?_

“You really surprised me in there, kid.” Bill is talking to him again, but Dipper can’t seem to do much more than stare at a spot on the ground and tremble. “Who knew there was such an impressive brain rattling around up in that puny human noggin of yours?”

“What is he talking about?” Ford asks, that grip on his shoulder tightening. “Dipper, what happened?”

“What do you think, Sixer?” Bill all but cackles. “I took his mindscape for a little spin!”

Dipper feels like his head is still spinning, actually. Does this mean he’s back? Does this mean he won? No. It can’t possibly be that easy. It’s just another trick. Just another way for Bill to mess with his head. He’s still trapped. Ford shot him and he died and now he’s trapped in another reality. That must be it. Because if it’s not… If he’s really _back_ …

Dipper’s legs give out and he sinks to the floor.

“He found his way back all on his own, too. After one hell of a ride, of course. Am I right, kid?” Bill goes on, floating over to Dipper and reaching out to pat him on the head. Dipper flinches, pulse skyrocketing, but Ford is suddenly crowding around him, arms wrapped tight and trench coat covering half of him in dusty warmth. 

“Don’t touch him!” Ford shouts, and now Dipper _definitely_ knows this isn’t real.

“Alright, alright!” Bill giggles, pulling his hands away. “Just figured I’d congratulate him one more time before I go.” Despite Dipper’s attempts to look away, Bill forces himself into Dipper’s line of sight. “That mind of yours is really something, Pine Tree. Not to mention your resolve.” Bill’s eye takes on the form of a pair of lips, whistling at him in grotesque appreciation. “Who knew you’d actually be willing to go that far?”

Dipper opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly all he wants to do is throw up. He buries himself into Ford’s coat instead, tangling his hands in his hair.

“You won this round, Pine Tree,” Bill hums, closer to his ear than should be possible. Dipper thinks, for a moment, that he can even hear it inside his own head. “But I’m not through with you yet. Not now that I know how much fun you can be.” Dipper closes his eyes as tight as he can, shaking his head against Ford’s chest. Ford’s arms pull him a bit closer, even if the both of them are too tense for it to be comfortable.

“I know a good suit when I see one,” Bill chuckles, voice already further away, disappearing around the edges. “I don’t mind waiting until it’s on sale.” Dipper covers his ears, tries to block out the implication, but it’s too late. “See you around, Pine Tree.”

_It’s too late._

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. After all of that, after everything he did to get back, if he even _is_ back, and Bill just… Bill’s still wants to… Dipper is shaking so hard he thinks he might literally fall to pieces, Ford’s arms the only thing keeping him together.

_There’s no end. There’s no end to this nightmare, is there?_

“Dipper!” Mabel’s voice reaches through his panic, shattering the overwhelming sense of insurmountable dread like a baseball through a window. Dipper’s head shoots up automatically. He watches as she pulls herself free from Grunkle Stan’s grasp and bolts in his direction. Before he knows what he’s doing, Dipper is stumbling out of Ford’s arms and into his sister’s, clutching onto her for dear life. She feels solid and real and present and Dipper can’t help the sob that crawls its way up his throat.

“It’s okay,” Mabel chokes out, her voice soft and wobbly. “I don’t know what happened but whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.” 

Dipper means to say, _No. No it won’t. Nothing will ever be okay again._ But instead, all he does is pull Mabel closer and nod against her neck, tears falling onto the fabric of her sweater.

“M-Mabel,” Dipper cries, voice muffled against her. “This is real, right? You’re real? I’m actually here right now? I don’t… I don’t know if I…”

“Of course you are,” Mabel tries to soothe, running a hand down his back. “You’re right here with me, Bro Bro. I promise.”

He feels Mabel shift around him, and then suddenly there is a light, familiar weight on his head. Dipper wills himself to pull out of his sister’s comforting embrace, hands reaching up to the hat currently nestled over his windblown hair. Something slots back into place.

“I’m really here,” Dipper repeats, throat tight. Mabel nods, wiping a hand beneath her eyes, smearing dirt across her cheeks. 

“I don’t know where you went, Dipper,” she says. “But you’re back now.”

Dipper looks around, tries to force himself to believe her, tries to take in the image of the Shack and his uncles and the woods beyond. It feels so real. It should be no problem for him to accept that it is. Like waking up from a vivid dream. He shouldn’t have a problem telling the difference now that he’s here and awake and _back home_. But he does.

Oh god, he does.

Dipper grabs onto the edges of his hat and tries to pull it down even further, covering as much of his head as he can. The brim ducks down over his eyes until all he can see is darkness and blue and the line of his knees. His mind is whirling and his chest aches and he wants to scream.

So he does.

He feels more than hears Mabel back away, startled. He feels more than hears the way his uncles carefully approach, like he’s a wild animal that’s been wounded. He feels more than hears the way his choked off sobs turn into full on wailing, Dipper’s whole body breaking down under the weight of it. He’s never cried this hard in his life, doesn’t think he ever will again, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

He’s home.

Mabel’s arms are around him again, an awkward sibling hug made even more so by the way he shakes and weeps within it.

He’s home.

Ford is saying something to Stan, something about metal plates and protecting Dipper’s mind and keeping Bill away from him, never letting him do something like this again. Grunkle Stan opts for a more violent approach, muttering something about, _killing him with our own two hands, Poindexter._

He’s home.

Dipper’s palm brushes against his forehead, the skin around his birthmark just slightly raised. Dipper freezes, touching at it more directly, running his fingertips along the scarred flesh. There’s no denying the shape of it. A permanent reminder. Like he needs one. 

He swears he can hear a dissonant laughter rustling the leaves alongside the wind, and Dipper’s hand drops heavily to his side. Mabel picks it up instantly, fingers intertwining with his, squeezing once, twice. Dipper closes his eyes.

He’s home. 

He has a feeling it’ll be a while before he learns to believe it, but maybe, one day, they’ll be able to keep Bill out of his head. Maybe, one day, they’ll even be able to defeat him. He has his family back, he has Gravity Falls and the Shack and his home back. Everything else will fall into place eventually. So despite all the chaos in his head, Dipper decides to focus on the only thing that matters right now. The only thing worth thinking about.

_I’m home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being a part of this with me. I wouldn't have had nearly as much fun torturing Dipper without you. Hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
